


Back In The Old Days

by sluttypumpkin



Series: Those Were The Days [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Affairs, Alcohol, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Honeymoon, Hook-Up, Humor, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Queer Themes, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sluttypumpkin/pseuds/sluttypumpkin
Summary: Love, lust, heartbreak, and hilarity from the years after Live Aid.
Relationships: Anita Dobson/Brian May, John Deacon/Original Female Character(s), Roger Taylor (Queen)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Those Were The Days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813303
Comments: 45
Kudos: 21





	1. Love and Other Drugs

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the first installment of this series, These Are The Days, before reading! It'll all make a lot more sense! :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the one where Roger and Ed hook up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 7 of TATDs for context :-) Use drugs responsibly, kids
> 
> P.S.A. I have never written SMUT smut before so bear with me lol. Would appreciate feedback! Anyways we getting down and making love

His tail between his legs, Roger sulks through the lobby. He attracts considerable attention as he shuffles toward the elevator. Namely, because he was famous, but also because of the bizarre way in which he held himself. His gait was that of a scolded child, shoulders hunched, brow wrinkled, his bandmates' dismissal of him still fresh in his mind.

His eyes, however, were those of a man whose brain was on fire. His pupils were blown wide. He couldn't seem to focus on anything, his eyeballs twitching curiously in their sockets. Despite the apparent life in him, his features were chillingly even.

What a strange thing cocaine was.

Roger couldn't understand why the others had leaped for their high horses when they realized he was on the stuff. None of them had a clean nose. Besides, the recording sessions were going well. Why not indulge a little? It wasn't as if he'd been snorting away on his own, either.

Ed had been there too.

In the reflection of the elevator mirror, Roger notices his eyelids droop involuntarily. _Ed_. That cheeky, arrogant, hilarious little devil. He was glad the young journalist had accompanied Erica to Munich. They were firm friends by now, forever concocting mischief.

Or throwing flirtatious remarks to one another. Back and forth, back and forth. It had started as a joke, but it didn't seem to make either of them laugh anymore. It had started to lose some of its frivolity.

Ed liked him, and he liked Ed.

Roger muses on the newfound attraction as he stumbles through the corridors towards his suite. His thoughts empty, replaced by immortal images of that beautiful young red-head. He wasn't sure whether it was the cocaine, but he was certain the man _glowed_. He had an ethereal quality to him. The perfect package but not out of reach, surely?

The drummer frowns.

What if he was just kidding himself? Missing Dominique? _Horny?_ He laughs that notion away. If it was a shag he needed, he could easily go down into the hotel bar and wait for a woman to approach him. Getting laid had never been much of a hurdle. He could lose himself in the arms of some gorgeous blonde for a few hours and forget he'd ever contemplated sleeping with a man.

Roger's glad he doesn't action that strategy.

He finds Ed sprawled across his bed, as usual not where he ought to be.

"What are you doing in 'ere?" Roger asks, words barking out quicker than his mouth could process them. He holds a hand over his eyes, suddenly aware of how ridiculously fucking bright the overhead light was. "Erica told you to stick to your own room."

A mop of auburn curls lifts from crinkled sheets. "Like she doesn't sneak into John's room every night."

The drummer's lips form a scandalized 'o'. The two did fancy one another like mad, but he didn't think the bassist was the _affairs_ type. " _Does_ she?"

Ed shrugs. "Probably not". He swings his legs over the end of the bed. "If she is, good for her. We all deserve a good dicking down, don't we?" He bats his eyelashes, pinning the other man to the spot with cool, green eyes. He was _definitely_ high. Roger suspected he wasn't as accustomed to coke as he was, not that he made a habit of it either.

He tries to appear responsible, ridiculous given his intoxication. "Are you alright?" he asks.

Ed blinks hard, vision just starting to drift away. "I'm _great_ " he surges, leaping to his feet. He shimmies toward the drummer, arms waving wildly in the air. Roger didn't have a clue what he was doing. Further questions were raised when he found himself slightly turned on by the display. "Erica seemed really mad" he notes, awkwardly taking a step back.

The younger man looked damn gorgeous under the lamplight and he didn't trust his hands to keep to themselves.

Ed pouts. "I suppose I have a habit of _overdoing it_ " he confesses, "I've got myself in a real mess before. Sometimes I don't know when to stop."

Roger reclaims that step. Tentatively he reaches out, lays his hand on the redhead's shoulder. It's a comforting squeeze he aims for, but somehow he ends up caressing him through the cotton of his t-shirt. "I shouldn't have pressured you into it" the drummer sighs, "I'm sorry-"

"You didn't pressure me into anything" the journalist declares, "I joined in because I fancied a bump, not because I was _seduced_ into it". _Seduced_. Roger hums involuntarily. He feels Ed relax under his palm. Even seems to lean into the touch. The material of his top was thin enough that he could feel the heat pouring through it.

Was the rest of his body so deliciously warm? How would it feel to lay in his arms, skin to skin? Like paradise, he expected.

"Can I use your shower?" Ed blurts, swaying on the spot suddenly, "Might sober me up a bit."

"Yeah, feel free."

Roger assumed he was too stoned to recall that he had a shower of his own to use. Or was he aware, and just enjoyed the idea of torturing him? He had to know what it would do to him, surely? Knowing he was naked in the next room, porcelain skin slick with hot water.

But Ed didn't actually know that he fancied him, did he? The drummer still wasn't totally confident that the feeling was reciprocated.

"You need a hand?"

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. Why did he ask that? Was he _trying_ to embarrass himself?

Ed snorts. "In cleaning myself? I think I'll manage" he swipes. Unmistakably, his eyes dart to the drummer's lips. Roger feels his heart stop. "I'm sure there are other things you can help me with though."

Perhaps the attraction was mutual. But then again, he'd said things ten times as suggestive in previous conversations and never actually made a move. _Urgh_. This was Hell.

Apparently, Ed had concerns of his own. His brow crinkles. "Sorry, I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable-"

"You didn't" Roger answers, far too quickly.

"It's just I-" The other man stutters. "Well, I feel safe around you."

Cheeks glowing, he flicks the bathroom light on. Roger questions when, and _how_ , he'd found himself in such a total fucking mess.

A heavy nap offers some relief. He doesn't dream of anything, just sees strange colors dancing behind his eyelids. A particularly vivid flare of pink wakes him. The bedside lamps are still on, and the surrounding hotel suites are quiet.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He felt a little refreshed. The room didn't spin as it had done, and the elation in his head was replaced with a dull headache. He attempts to move into a sitting position when he realizes there's someone lying on the other side of the bed.

Ed, eyes shut, hair still damp from his shower. He was tucked beneath the covers, arms wrapped around himself, countenance peaceful. His t-shirt was cast over a chair in the corner. For all Roger knew, the man could be totally _naked_. He contemplates peering beneath the sheets to check but decides against it. He wasn't a pervert.

Perhaps a _slight_ pervert.

Christ, he was _toned_. Roger would never have guessed, so slight was the younger man's frame. His arms boasted finely carved muscles. Wrapped around himself as they were, his veins popped. His hands looked strong, all that typing at the BBC he assumed. He could make out only a small slither of his chest. His abs seemed defined too, those perfect etchings that ran from his nipples to his navel begging to be worshipped.

Ashamed of his own creepiness, Roger lifts the bedsheets with a finger. He was wearing underwear, tight black briefs that did wonderful things to his ass. He's basking in the sight when he realizes he's being watched.

"Like what you see?" Ed quips.

"Oh, er-"

The journalist rolls his eyes, a smirk dancing on his lips. "You're so cocky around girls," he says, "Put you in bed with a pretty boy and you're tongue-tied."

The drugs linger just long enough on Roger's tongue to loosen it. "I'm not used to wanting blokes" he admits.

Ed sits up quicker than anything. All arrogant pretense is cast aside. "So it's real then?" he asks, "You _do_ like me?"

"I don't know" Roger fires. He gulps. Clarity hits him like a ten-ton brick. He was in bed with someone he'd been flirting with for months. If ever there was an opportunity for a payoff, it was now. He corrects himself, unashamed. "Yeah, I do. Like mad."

Ed pauses. Then makes his decision in milliseconds.

He's met halfway. Lips touch, tenderly initially, that crucial first test. Sparks fly as they hoped. The effect was numbing, ecstatic.

Roger clasps the other man's face, securing him in the kiss. He senses the embrace deepen and takes a risk, slips his tongue between those perfect teeth of his. He feels the journalist hum against him, mouth opening freely. He tasted _wonderful_. Like tobacco and coffee and mint and the odd drop of vodka. The bouquet consumes him. He persists, aroused even more by submission he was shown.

Ed pulls back, heavy breaths catching in his throat. "Tell me again," he says, "Tell me again that you really like me and this isn't some messed up experiment of yours."

"I like you. I really, _really_ like you."

Old wounds make the redhead hesitate.

"I could show you" Roger entreats, cupping his cheek, "If you'll let me."

Ed searches keenly for even the tiniest hint of deception in those baby blue eyes of his. There is none. He _meant_ it. He ogles him fiercely, weeks upon weeks of pent up tension finally close to release. " _Show me_ " he urges.

The kiss resumes, flames stoked further by the assurance that it wasn't just a bored, coke-induced fuck they were headed for.

Roger rolls on top of him. At _last_ , he could marvel at that perfect figure. Lips captured by dirty maneuvers, he takes the time to trace each and every carving. Calloused fingers follow the edges and bumps of his chest, discovering a divinely sculptured form the further down he traveled.

He reaches the hem of Ed's briefs. The material was thin, easy enough to slip a hand under. He'd been too caught up in the rest of the man to contemplate what might be within.

Curiosity dictates. The drummer tears himself away from the kiss and snakes his way below the covers, tongue painting a wet trail along his abs. _God_ , his skin was smooth. So supple and silky after that shower he'd had. He speeds up his dissent and soon finds himself in incredibly unfamiliar territory.

Roger hopes Ed doesn't mistake the delay for reluctance. He _wanted_ to tear his underwear away, to make the man happy, but he wasn't sure _how_. A ridiculous notion, he decided, given how frequently he was on the receiving end. Perhaps that was a good strategy? To try and replicate what he knew made _him_ feel good?

_Fuck it_.

He presses his mouth to the black cotton of Ed's briefs. With airy kisses, he follows the outline of his cock. Ed dives a hand beneath the sheets, hooking the blonde's hair in a tight grip. The drummer hears a grunt from up above. The vibration goes right to his crotch. He presses it against the other man's leg, eager for him to feel the hardness there, and carries on. With his teeth, he tugs at the seam of the underwear.

The grunts descend into moans.

It was no good. He had to see him.

Roger waits for approval before peeling Ed's briefs down his thighs. He credits himself on not finishing then and there. He puts his fervor to use, digits curling cautiously about the base of his erection. He's more sure of himself when he feels the warmth there. The _strength_. It makes his next move easier.

Wetting his lips, he lowers himself over the tip. He remembers what various girls had done over the years. Swirled their tongues over the sensitive nerves there, made him tremble. He gets the same reaction from Ed, only it's better now. Feelings were involved. Raw, complicated feelings.

"Fucking hell" he hears Ed murmur. The fasten he has his locks in intensifies.

Sinful, delightful, it urges Roger on. He takes his length wholly, fist building up a steady rhythm at his stem. Then he gags and suddenly feels rather unsure of himself. But excitement spurs him on. Makes him persist. The feeling wasn't odd in any way. It was just right.

As much as he regretted waiting until his thirties to explore such things, he was glad he'd waited for _Ed_.

It turned out Ed wasn't one for waiting.

He pulls the drummer back from the shadows and pins him to the mattress. Working himself with his hand, the hardened veins there wrestling with adrenaline, he sinks to his knees. He's quicker in his approach.

Roger feels his pajama pants slither along his leg and pool at his ankles, then a hot mouth enveloping his dick. The redhead bobs rhythmically over his lap, intense, guttural splutterings escaping the more of him he claimed. With every suck, the musician felt a little more. Let the warmth of Ed's throat spread through him.

He reminds himself of John's advice. He'd mocked him at the time, _Misfire_ taking on a whole new meaning, but now he found some wisdom in his bassist's drunken waffling. He wouldn't last long with Ed if he wasn't careful.

That wouldn't do. They'd barely started.

With a loud pop, Ed withdraws, lungs in dire need of a boost. " _Fuck_ , you taste so good" he groans. The journalist throws the sheets back. Exposes them both to the chilly Munich air drifting through the window. Blinking prettily beneath thick eyelashes, he fixes the older man to the pillow. "Does it feel good?"

"Please-"

"Tell me. _Make_ me."

Roger slides a thumb between his lips. " _Keep going_ " he barks. An _order_.

Ed's a good boy. He does as he's told. Inhales keenly between his teeth, then goes back to business between the drummer's legs. 

White light flashes behind Roger's eyelids. He does what he can to stay calm, though there's pathetic neediness to his tone when he's finally able to speak. "I really want you" he utters, "But I-"

"We don't have to if you don't want" Ed assures him, "It's okay."

"No, I _want_ to. I really do". He draws the man back up, invites him to rest on his stomach. He lets his hands dance low until they cup the journalists behind. He wonders at how shapely his ass was. So gorgeous, so perfect for holding. He aims a slap at Ed's cheeks, eliciting a subtle moan. Again, the sound travels right through him. Makes him feel as he never had.

Roger lets his fingertips follow a natural course. They dance at the other man's entrance, itching to dive in. Disobediently Ed lowers himself onto them. The drummer feels the muscles within flex about his touch. Fucking _hell_ , it felt good. He pumps his digits inward, calloused pads brushing against his walls. He adds a third finger, then a fourth. _God in Heaven_. If it felt this good to finger him, how good would it feel to-

Ed throws his head back, mouth agape. "I _swear_ if you don't have a condom nearby-"

"Always equipped, love" Roger insists, reaching blindly for his nightstand. The journalist has to assist, just about grabbing the knob on the top drawer, so blinded by pleasure as he was. The drummer receives a foil packet and tears it open. He waits, eyes narrowing mischievously. He was almost totally relaxed in the encounter by now and his imagination ran rampant.

He places the rubber between Ed's teeth. " _Go on_."

Gracefully, Ed runs it along his cock. He kisses the tip for good measure, thanks for what was to unfold. Then he's straddling him, grinding skilfully, anticipating a progression. _In time_...

"Are you _sure_?" he reiterates, "Really, we don't have to if you're unsure."

Roger appreciates the sentiment. He displays as much with a gentle kiss. He drags it on, catching the journalist's bottom lip under his incisors. " _I'm sure_ " he states. Indeed, he'd never been more sure of anything. He wanted to fuck Ed. To feel him properly. To make him tremble. He was tired of pretending otherwise.

The couple sloppily make out, kinder than before. A healing moment they sorely needed.

Then Ed's lowering himself onto the other man.

Roger feels his shaft relax around him. He winces. "Fuck, you're tight" he exclaims, nails digging into the other man's behind.

He notices Ed grimace and a wave of pride fluctuates through him. "God, that feels good" he pants, red curls clinging to his temple, "What do you want, Rog? Tell me."

" _Ride me_."

Again, Ed does as he's told. Revels in it. Latches onto his own rock-hard prick, trembling through the motions. 

Roger had never seen such a beautiful scene. The man he so desired touching himself while he pushed into him, walls crumbling around him. Curses fall freely from him, each time lodging in his throat before releasing. He feared he'd make a fool of himself, so extraordinary, was it.

"Bounce for me" he instructs.

Ed shifts his feet further along the bed, ending up in a squatting position. He drops back down, then up, then down again. He could scarcely remember Craig. The boyfriend he had waiting for him back in England.

The entire liaison was wrong but _so_ right.

Roger seizes the younger man's erection and rubs determinedly. Every drop of ecstasy he feels as Ed bobs his ass against him he channels into those strokes, his forefinger grazing the engorged tip every now and then. Just enough contact to make him moan.

"Oh, yes" Ed yelps, gesticulations increasingly erratic, "Fuck me, Rog, _please_."

The drummer flips him onto his back. Immediately he buries himself deep, yanking the reporter's legs over his shoulders. Why he'd ever hesitated he couldn't comprehend. There was no better feeling than this. Sex would never be the same. None would ever make him feel what Ed did. He wasn't sure how to communicate it at that moment. It felt too intense.

All he can do is plunge right to the hilt, thumbs intermittently massaging the other man's nipples.

Ed flinches again, teetering dangerously between pain and pleasure. " _Oh, fuck_."

It hits Roger at once. "Ed, I'm going to-"

"On me, Rog. _Please_."

He pulls out just in time.

Dazed, head spinning, he watches a stream of white drip over the other man's stomach. A guttural cry stuck on his tongue, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He'd never come so hard in his life.

A handful of caresses later, Ed's making a mess of his own. Teasingly, the redhead massages the stuff into his skin, licking the excess from dripping fingers.

"You're perfect" Roger gasps, collapsing atop him, "So perfect". Satisfied, at last, his eyes droop shut. Sleep takes him quickly.

Ed's not far behind.

Though he isn't as peaceful when he eventually wakes.

His ass aches and he's acutely aware of how Erica must have noticed his absence from the bed they shared.

He slips his threads on quietly, not daring to wake his newfound lover.

Their night of passion was perfect, everything he'd secretly dreamed it would be. But it was _complicated_. They were both in relationships. One open about themselves, the other closeted. And both on a _work trip_.

Ed departs reluctantly. Not because it was the greatest shag he'd ever had.

But because he and Roger would never _really_ be friends again. They'd _always_ be something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to start with this one! Hope it was worth the wait :-)
> 
> Looking back on TATDs, I'm disappointed in myself for the lack of Roger/Ed smut. I deliberately left out the first hookup to add some ~mystery~ but throughout there's a real love scene imbalance between the two main couples. That's very heteronormative of me and I apologize.
> 
> I'm aiming to rectify this with this collection :-)
> 
> Any prompts you have for Roger/Ed content (or any content at all), let me know!


	2. Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Ed gets the feeling Roger's going to break his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 11 of TATDs for context :-) Should say smut warning. Tbh just assume that every chapter is going to include smut.

It's a short stretch from the cab to the front door. A good thing too. Roger was desperately keen, practically tripping over himself in an effort to get as close as he could.

The journey over to Ed's flat had been a handsy one. The pair were subject to obviously disapproving stares from their driver. The man was even reluctant to accept the fare money Ed offered up, insisting he set it down on the passenger seat instead of touching him. Roger had grown annoyed. Too familiar with such situations, Ed had opted for a quick way out.

He'd cut the drummer off with a kiss, and the bigot was left to his muttering.

Tattered Christmas holiday garlands hang in the apartment window. A string of lights splutters into life when Ed flicks the switch. Hands on hips, he studies the decorations he'd arranged. Meager but just enough. He'd been rather depressed when he first put them up but he was starting to embrace the festive season now.

"You look so pretty beneath all those lights" Roger compliments, sneaking up from behind. Ed could smell the alcohol on him. He didn't smell any sweeter.

They'd both been at Fred's Christmas party and got chatting.

There'd been an invitation to head outside and smoke. No smoking actually occurred in the end. The second Roger was sure the yard was empty he'd taken the other man by the waist and pressed him against the wall. He'd been dying to kiss him again ever since that night they shared in Munich.

Roger wanted all of him. Every inch.

"You're only up for it because you're _drunk_ " Ed blurts, staring aimlessly out of the window. He tries to remain passive as arms are wrapped around his middle but fails miserably. He was touch-starved. He'd not slept with anyone since that time with Roger. Craig had dumped him when he admitted to it.

"So are you" the older man reasons.

"Yeah, but I'd gladly hook up with you sober, too."

The drummer quirks an eyebrow cockily, hand seizing Ed's backside roughly. "So we're _hooking up_ , are we?"

" _Pig_."

With notable determination, Ed tears himself away and sinks into the couch. The padding was wearing thin and the springs were starting to poke through. He'd been saving for months for a new one. One of those fancy leather kinds he drew red circles around in the catalogs. The price tags were intimidating. At least with a role on Top of the Pops, he now had another source of income.

He sighs. He was heading into 1986 with a promising career. It was a shame he couldn't be as optimistic about his love life. 

"What's this about?" Roger poses, landing with a slump in the adjacent seat. He momentarily vanishes into the material but manages to restore himself. His hands itch at his sides. He'd be good. Behave himself. 

"People like that cab driver have a way of getting in my head" Ed laments, propping his face up with his fist under his chin, "I could see it in his eyes. How _disgusting_ he found me."

The blonde's restraint slips. He shifts a hand to the younger man's knee. "I don't think you're disgusting."

The journalist huffs impatiently. " _You're not listening_ " he barks, "I've put up with people like that my whole life. My parents, my school teachers, everyone. It fucks you up."

Roger retracts his hand. He feels himself sober up immediately. He realizes Ed needs him. "I understand" he speaks. He shakes his head. "Or, I understand that I'll never completely understand, if that makes any sense."

"Look, fuck all those people, yeah? They're not worth the energy. You're such a lovely guy". Tentatively, he leans across to tuck a red curl behind his ear. His fingertips brush his neck, briefly but long enough to elicit a shiver. "I mean it. You're brilliant."

Ed finally faces him, doe-eyed. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to break my heart?"

Roger thinks its a joke. He laughs, then gently takes the other man by the tip of his chin. He draws him near and presses his lips to his. 

* * *

Ed loved all kinds of sex. Sleepy afternoon sex. Quick sex while out on lunch breaks. Covert sex in places where he absolutely shouldn't be having it.

Morning sex was his favorite. Those hoarse ' _good mornings_ ' and first sloppy kisses when two people first woke. Numb hands just starting to find their warmth again. Slowly peeling clothes off and lying naked atop the sheets, pale sunbeams boring through the curtains. 

Last night had been fun, but the morning after was even better.

Floppy hair fused to his forehead with sweat, Roger tries to steady himself on the small of the other man's back. His arms quiver beneath him, every drop of strength he had going into the rhythmic motions he made with his hips. Ed tries to compensate by lifting his ass a little more. Roger is mesmerized. Those pert little cheeks of his looked so divine. So tight and willing. He drives his cock deeper, grunting as he hits new depths, the younger man's walls molding around him perfectly.

A familiar burning sensation ignites in his lower stomach. Thrusts grow weaker. "Oh, _fuck_ " he groans, throwing his head back.

" _Already_?"

Roger cuts the smirk Ed wears short with a fierce push, hitting just the right areas going by his dazed expression. "Mock me like that again and I'll come all over these lovely clean sheets of yours" he teases. Christ. Even joking about it couldn't put it off. An overwhelming pulsing sensation washes over him, from stem to tip.

"Don't you dare" Ed warns. He yelps suddenly, gorgeous eyes squeezing shut. "Inside me, Rog."

That's all the drummer needs. Nails digging into the other man's thighs, he finishes hard. He rides the feeling out, lungs giving a final crisp moan. " _Fucking hell_ " he pants, pulling out gently.

Ever the gentleman, he finishes Ed off with his fist. Plunges deep, sin on his tongue, until his lover is singing his name and dripping all over himself.

Floating in a glorious post-orgasm glow, Ed presses his belly into the mattress. He stretches his limbs out, humming as the tension in them is released. He's vaguely aware of Roger helping him clean up, and that the sheets he lay on were clean no longer, but he doesn't care. He felt peaceful. Safe. Secure.

He'd waited a long time to feel such a way about a man.

Exhaling contentedly, he rolls onto his back. His face falls.

Roger's already reaching for his jeans. The drummer freshens himself up hastily at the sink then pulls his clothes back on.

"Where are you off to?" Ed asks, blissful shine dimming.

"Just remembered I've got this thing with Dominique" Roger excuses. He grins obliviously. He licks his lips at the naked man looking up at him and kneels on the foot of the bed to get a better look. Ed wonders whether he'll stay after all. Then that seductive gaze is abandoned and he's grappling with the laces of his sneakers. As if he'd got what he wanted and now wanted to bolt.

"I thought you left her" Ed pouts.

"It's nothing like _that_ " Roger protests, perhaps a little too quickly, "It's just a catch-up. So we can figure stuff out now we're not together. Routines for the kids and such like."

"I see" the younger man replies pointedly.

"Don't give me that" the blonde tuts. He checks his watch. A spring in his step, he bends down to kiss him, lips parted ever so slightly. Ed tries to keep him near, tongue dancing behind his teeth, but he fails. Whatever he had going on with Dom was more important.

"Call me, yeah? We'll do this again sometime."

"Sure."

Roger skips away unaware. Ed stays silent and still until he hears the front door shut.

He regretted using the phrase ' _hooking up_ '. That was what people in casual relationships did. They had their fun then _left_ , just as Roger had just done. He couldn't see the older man agreeing to a proper date. Roger wasn't interested in being romantic with him, just wanted a good fuck. Ed knew he'd always oblige. His feelings ran too deeply for him to refuse.

A quiet sniffle escaping him, the redhead trudges over to the bathroom, eager to scrub the drummer's scent away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed :-(
> 
> Works starting to pick up again at the moment so I apologize if I disappear from time to time!
> 
> Next episode we have Anita and Brian content and a broken-up Erica and John being unhealthy (Again)


	3. Save It 'Til the Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, a recently broken-up Erica and John bump into each other at a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapters 13 and 14 of TATD :-)
> 
> Saw this pic of John at a party in '86 and my imagination ran from there twitter.com/johndeacon_/status/1145948302128689152

"You fancy him, don't you?"

For an actress, Anita makes a poor attempt at masking her embarrassment. "He's _married_."

Erica frowns. "I'm not saying you have to _act_ on it."

The two women regard Brian, stood amongst his friends at the opposite end of the room. He'd come over about half an hour before, made polite conversation. He was glad to see Erica, but she could tell it was Anita he was dying to chat with. The ginger had babbled happily, utterly starstruck. The guitarist had looked over since. Made coy glances when he thought no one was looking.

Erica felt bad for them. Feelings weren't as easily shaken as some liked to believe. Even when there were moral hurdles in the way, love latched on. She hoped they'd resist temptation for the time being, of course. Another marriage within the band falling foul of an affair seemed like too much bad luck.

"Do you think he knows?" Anita whispers, lifting her drink over her mouth as though fearing another party-goer would start lipreading.

"Definitely" her friend answers, "It's so obvious he adores you". She watches the woman's cheeks flush an impassioned crimson. She cups them nervously, amazed at how hot under the collar she'd suddenly become.

"Oh, _God_ " she cries, "This is a nightmare."

Erica smiles sympathetically. "If it's meant to be, you'll both find a way" she urges.

By that assessment, she and John were done for.

She watches the bassist join his bandmate on the far side of the penthouse. They'd managed to avoid one another so far. The party was awash with people. It was easy to vanish, to pull people aside and submerge oneself in conversation if the other person got too near.

They weren't sure why they were avoiding each other. They'd promised to remain friends.

Anita follows her line of sight. "How are you holding up, pet?" she comforts.

Erica feels her grip on her glass tighten. She downs the remainder of her drink in one gulp. " _Fine_."

She looked fine, from where John was standing. He tried not to stare. It was a challenge. She looked damn good, slender legs on show in a tight black dress. No sleeves, her chest deliberately pushed up. She'd had her hair cut again, those delightful coarse curls of hers resting just below her ears.

He still wanted her.

Angry that they were through, yes, but no less in love.

Roger was a little more successful at the moment, to John's enormous chagrin. He simmers jealously when Ed saunters over, arms immediately curling about his boyfriend. He'd already failed in hiding his envy when Jim and Fred were near. Freddie was empathetic. Even tried to hook him up with a few of the other lovely ladies at the party.

They seemed nice enough, but he wasn't interested. He'd consider it if he could be sure he'd get a reaction from Erica. Heartbreak brought the childishness in him out, seemingly.

"Cheer up, Deaky" Roger coos, "Any one of these birds here will shag you."

"You do look very handsome" Ed compliments. John nods appreciatively.

Roger pouts. "Beg your pardon?"

"Just speaking objectively, love" Ed insists.

There was no hope in seeking advice from Brian. He was too busy pretending he wasn't ogling Anita.

A group of men had approached the two women by now. They were familiar to John, friends from the business. _Duran fucking Duran_. Handsome boys with gorgeous hair and stylish outfits. Everyone was eager to chat with them, but of course, out of everyone, they'd chosen _Erica_. The band immediately make themselves comfortable. Going by the way Anita and his ex giggled, they'd just said something hilarious.

One of the members stands particularly close. John wonders whether they'd met before. He knew the man as another John. He was a bassist too. He resents himself for feeling slighted. Paranoia kicks in. Erica knew he was around, knew he must be hurting. And to pick another _bassist called John_ , too? It felt like a sick joke.

She seemed into it. Eased into his stray touches, seemed comfortable with him in her space. The way she held herself, deep brown eyes wide, hair tucked behind her ear. She was flirting with him. He responded in kind. How could he not?

John wanted to be on the receiving end again. Wanted her to bat her lashes at him seductively. Lower her voice so no one else could hear. Let her whisper to him about the things she wanted to do when they were alone.

But _no_. Someone else would be taking her home tonight. The bassist tortures himself with images of what the cozy pair might get up to. He sees Erica guide the other musician into the darkness of her bedroom. Strip slowly for him. Press him onto the mattress and sink to her knees. Tell him how wet she was for him. How she _needed_ him, rough and passionate, all night long.

"What's on your mind, darling?" Fred questions, sliding back into the circle, hand in hand with his husband.

John just huffs defeatedly and stalks off toward the kitchen to pour himself another drink.

* * *

Brian hovers at the door to the stairwell. He'd been so confident when he decided to follow Anita out. Then he'd spotted her sitting on the top step and panicked. What reason did he give for him appearing? Did he ask her if she was okay? Play it off as if he was just getting some air?

Shit. Too late for excuses. She'd already spotted him and was waving him over. At least she wanted him around.

"Need a breather?" she poses kindly, patting the spot beside her.

Brian perches on the step, stretching his long legs out. "Something like that". In reality, his breathing had been perfectly fine while lost in the star-studded crowd. Only now he was alone with her did his lungs struggle to keep up.

"I love events like this," she says, nodding back to the penthouse door. The music playing within made the walls vibrate. Doubtless, the owner would have a fine delivered to him in the morning, not that he couldn't afford it. "Don't you?"

"Every now and then" Brian offers. He taps his kneecaps nervously. He found it difficult to look her way for too long. She was so inescapably enchanting.

Guilt stayed his hand, too. He was still married. And there were the kids to consider. He wasn't sure whether he was ready for a scandal.

Anita gives him a friendly nudge. "Where would you rather be?" she asks. It was an innocent inquiry, just a way of making conversation, but it sends the guitarist's imagination into overdrive. He ashamed of what it produces. It makes it even harder for him to actually _look_ at her. He worried she'd know. Detect his sin from the shameful glint in his eye.

He does his best to maintain an even countenance. "I like stargazing" he reveals, seeking out comfortable territory, "I get a good view from the top of my house. Got a telescope set up. It's my favorite spot."

"That sounds nice" Anita smiles. She hesitates. "Perhaps I could see it sometime."

She's avoiding _his_ gaze now. Just stares aimlessly at the base of the staircase. Her fingers fiddle with the thin straps of her dress. One inadvertently loosens in the process, drifts a little down her shoulder. Brian notices. He's about to restore it on her shoulder for her but she beats him to it.

His hand lingers in the air. He tries to style it out but fails.

He comes to. "Oh, the telescope, yeah" he reminds himself, "Yeah, you're welcome to come over. If you really want to, that is". He sinks his head into his hands. It was like being a teenager again and he hated it.

Anita chuckles softly and taps him on the nose, drawing his attention to back to her. "I _do_ , if you'll have me" she assures him.

"Great" Brian murmurs, the sultry stare she trained on him drawing him in for all he was worth. He lets his focus drift to her lips, plump and thick with glossy red lipstick. He notices her look at his.

A knowing silence befalls them both.

The party fading away, they lean near, heads tilted, mouths parted ever so slightly.

There's a bang from behind. The penthouse door wrenches open, and a canoodling couple tumbles through. "Why don't you call us a cab?" Brian hears Erica speak, "I've just got to nip back in and have a word with someone."

"Don't be too long" Duran Duran's bassist urges.

The guitarist glances over his shoulder to see him catch her by the waist and draw her into a deep kiss. Erica hums against him, guiding his hands down to her ass. The other John slaps it teasingly then lets her see to her last errand.

 _Poor Deaky_ , he thinks. He felt sorry for himself too, admittedly.

Anita was getting to her feet and inviting him to rejoin the rest. Brian doubted he'd get another moment alone with her. He thought he could resist kissing her.

But now he'd got so close? He'd never wanted anything more.

* * *

More gin than soda, John fixes himself yet another drink. He'd already told Jim and Fred that he'd had enough for one night. That was until he'd spotted the woman he loved saying her goodbyes to her friends, another man on her arm.

He's drowning his sorrows quite contentedly in the privacy of the kitchen when he spots her approach. Her leather jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her clutch under her arm. She was still _leaving_. Pity. For a brief moment, the bassist had hoped she might be coming over to admit she still cared for him. Wanted to spend the night with him instead.

John would do it in a heartbeat. Their disagreements weren't worth shit compared to the feeling of _her_. That intoxicating taste that had haunted his every lonely moment since their break-up.

" _Hey_ " he mutters, pretending to be more interested in the bottom of his glass, rapidly draining the rate he gulped at.

Erica studies him sadly, the barrier he raised around himself practically tangible. "Is that it? _Hey_?" she sighs.

"What do you want me to say?" John spits. He surprised himself. He wasn't usually vengeful. They had good reasons for going their separate ways. It was easy to blame the alcohol but he was miserable enough without it.

Of course, whenever he raised his voice, she raised hers. They played off one another very badly in that way. Both more volatile than they cared to admit.

"You could start by explaining why you've been staring at me all evening" Erica declares, brow furrowing furiously.

"Like you haven't been throwing yourself allover that preppy prick in hopes that I'd notice" John scoffs.

The woman growls through gritted teeth. She crosses her arms defensively, chest heaving with exasperated breaths. The skin there was coated lightly with sweat. All that dancing, all those provocative shapes she'd thrown to the new wave beat. John knew she'd taste sweet. Salty, _divine_. He fights to push the thought from his consciousness.

"Not everything I do revolves around you" Erica retorts, "Why do you care, anyway? We're not together anymore."

"And how quickly you've moved on."

"Don't you fucking _dare_ " she hisses, "Don't you dare act like this has been easy on me."

She should have stopped there. As usual, reason abandons her. Few people got such a rise out of her. Perhaps it was because she knew there was some truth to what he said? Her attraction to the man waiting for her in a taxi downstairs was real. She wasn't using him. But she _had_ hoped John would be jealous. She suddenly realizes that was why she'd sought him out.

Like she needed to rub it in.

"Does it upset you? Thinking about me being with other people? Doing all the things I used to do to you?" she nags, taking a confident stride forward. "Maybe I should invite the rest of the band to join? Let them pass me around like I'm just holes to fill?"

John bites back a groan. "Just run along and join your little pet, yeah?"

"You don't _own_ me, John" Erica states, the anger starting to slip from her tone, "You could have done. Not in the way you really wanted to, with the kids and the happy families and all that. But I _wanted_ to be yours. Just yours. All yours."

" _And you pushed me away_."

She was unbearably close now. John swears he can feel her hot breaths on his face. He licks his lips, throat cripplingly dry all of a sudden. Other sensations were becoming apparent to him. The heat rising at the back of his neck. The hunger at the pit of his stomach. The stirring of his cock in his pants.

"I know I did" he replies.

He'd hoped he'd sound _proud_ somehow. Unremorseful. Try to convince her that he wasn't as bothered by their separation as she so clearly wanted him to be. The words disperse in the tense air. His voice is raw, weak, _sorry_.

"I don't like it either, you know" Erica tells him, "Thinking about you fucking other girls. I hate it, but I can't stop picturing it."

"I don't want anyone else."

John takes her by the neck and pulls her to him. Lips harshly crash together, Erica readily surrendering her mouth to him. Lets his tongue swipe at hers, the sound so deliciously sinful. Fuck, she'd missed that feeling. The smell of him. The prickly burn that lingered at the back of his throat from all the cigarettes he'd smoked. She forgets she'd promised herself to another for the night. She surrenders to him, lets him wrap himself up in her.

"I've missed you" John gasps, moving his attack to her neck, "Missed having you."

"I've missed you too" she whines, curling her nails against his scalp, tugging hard at the soft curls there. She hears him curse against her collarbone and shoves a knee between his thighs. She presses down determinedly, set on making him hard. She hikes her other leg up to his waist, setting a heeled foot on the back of his thigh. Revels in the friction she creates when she rubs herself along his side.

John tears her jacket from her shoulders and peels the top of her dress down. He leaves a trail of lovebites down to her tits, perky and swollen. He sucks a nipple between his teeth, biting gently and feels her shiver beneath him, a pretty moan choking out of her. The sound reaches him like the opening from a beautiful symphony, heavenly to his ears. He laps at the sensitive bumps of her chest, desperate for another note.

Every sense alight with desire, Erica cups his erection with her hand. She palms him through the thin material, thumb circling his tip. She hoped things would progress further, so she'd get to see him. She pictures herself ripping the belt from his middle and pulling his pants to his ankles. She brushes wet lips against his stubbled cheek, imagining how it would feel to blow him again. Take him right to the hilt while she massaged his balls. Urge him to gather her hair into a tight clump for him to hold onto while he told her what a good girl she was for taking his cock so well.

"I want you to take me" she whispers, "I really need you John, _please_."

The other partygoers could piss off. She needed him. Needed him to turn her around and press her face to the marble countertop, push into her, come in her, leave her sore and dripping.

John wanted it too. It made him dizzy, wondering how wet she must be for him. How good it would feel as her pussy clenched about him. It'd be a miracle if he didn't finish on the first thrust he was so needy.

That's why he's so surprised when he backs off.

Whether out of self-sabotage or good judgment, he couldn't be sure, but he lifts her dress back over her boobs and takes a step back. He aches at the loss of her. Already senses the loneliness setting in.

"I don't think your new man would like that," he says.

The words are cold to Erica's ears. She hovers before him, exposed. She considers storming away, leaving him in a fit of rage, but instead tears form at the corners of her eyes. She takes back her jacket and zips it right up, hides herself from him, ashamed of what they'd done. With shaky breaths, she flattens her hair down. Checks her lipstick in her pocket mirror.

She'd already left her date for too long. She didn't want him to know what had happened, not that she felt as keen on sleeping with him anymore.

John hated watching her walk away. He'd never get used to it. He knew he'd have to. He'd screwed up, well and truly.

Erica offers him once last sorrowful gaze, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "He's not my man" she sniffs, "You're my-" She cuts herself off, handsome features contorting in despondent fury.

And then she's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first draft of his encounter ended with John going over to Erica's apartment the next morning on the guise of him 'just dropping by' (he really wanted to know if the other John had spent the night). Then they had angry breakup sex.
> 
> I think I prefer this angstier ending!
> 
> Got my first proper shift back tomorrow and my boyfriend's just had to cancel his visit so ANGST YOU SHALL GET.
> 
> p.s I found this pic of John Taylor and thought Erica deserved a piece of that cookie:  
> www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw165283/John-Taylor?LinkID=mp10537&role=sit&rNo=5


	4. Wembley Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Brian and Anita are up to no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during one of the Wembley shows in '86
> 
> This is only a short one :-) A bit of fun

Solace was in short supply at Wembley Stadium.

The first of the _Magic_ dates at the venue had gone down supremely well. The band and the crew felt rejuvenated. As such, everyone was on their best behavior for the second gig. The roadies had arrived early and gone through every possible detail.

Erica found herself caught up in their flow. The summer air was starting to get to her, and she didn't like to distract John while he rehearsed, so she sought out a quiet spot to enjoy a cigarette.

She manages to discover a side passage, largely abandoned. Doors were dotted along the wall, presumably disused dressing rooms. She settles against the breezeblocks and slips her carton from her jean pocket.

An odd noise hits her just as she flicks her Zippo to life. Low, guttural, like something produced from the very base of someone's throat. The sounds of manual labor from beyond she assumes, some poor crew member heaving kit up onto the stage.

Erica thinks little of it until she hears it again. It's louder now, and almost wretched. Like someone suffering mildly. Her confusion deepens when its followed by a muffled plea for _more_.

The filter slips from her lips, expression one of scandal.

She knew sex noises when she heard them. Someone had discovered the secret corridor before her.

" _Again_ " she hears someone groan. A man by the sound of it, but not clear enough for her to gauge his identity.

A woman answers, similarly deceptive. " _Ask properly_."

There was little chance of the roadies bringing their dates in for a shag. Freddie and Jim were too lowkey even for quickies in forgotten rooms, wary of the attention they attracted from unfriendly eyes. John wasn't a suspect. And she was certain she'd seen Ed and Roger hanging out in the drummer's trailer.

That just left-

" _Please, Miss Dobson_."

Erica's hand finds its way over her mouth. It was the only chance she had of stifling the scream that begged to be released. She has to dart away from the door when she hears something strike skin. Something resembling a whip but softer. The action earns _Miss Dobson_ a pleasured grunt from her plaything. " _Oh my God_ " Erica mouthes, cheeks tinting a delicious crimson.

She felt embarrassed, worried about spoiling their fun, especially after the months of longing the couple had endured. Intrigue played on her mind too, however. She'd never have suspected _Brian_ would be into such things. Those S&M games she and John were quite into. And she knew Anita was cheeky, self-assured. Also very much a dom, by the sounds of things.

She hesitates before moving away, senses eager to discover how Brian and Anita's rendezvous might end.

Roger appears out of nowhere, concealing a cigarette behind his palm. He'd sought out the same refuge that she had. He's about to greet her when she shushes him, finger raised to her lips.

"Oi!" he barks, refusing to be silenced.

" _Shut up_ " Erica urges.

She covers his mouth and gently leads him nearer to the door.

Events had clearly escalated, what she assumed were whippings more frequent. It definitely sounded like Brian now. He yelps, as if another element of pain had been added to the mix. Still, he pleads, begs his mistress for more.

Roger recognizes his bandmate's voice faster than the journalist had. "That dirty fu-"

"Be quiet!" Erica urges, "They've been waiting _months_ to do something. We shouldn't interrupt."

The pair retreat to a safer spot along the corridor. They suck furiously at their cigarettes, hit by an odd cocktail of confusion, awkwardness, and arousal. Whatever Brian and Anita were doing, it sounded _hot_. The guitarist being so publicly sweet made the revelation even more fascinating.

"What do you think they're doing exactly?" Erica ponders.

"He had a tie on when he arrived" Roger notes, "Maybe she's-" He makes a whipping motion.

"A tie wouldn't make him cry out like that."

"Speaking from experience are we, Salib?"

" _Yes_."

"Fair play."

Roger begins to approach again. He's dragged back an inch or two by the woman but he still persists. He'd encountered many sights after so long on the road. Many incidents involving the lovely poodle-haired guitarist, getting carried away while groupies surrounded him. This was something new. A side of his friend he'd never discovered. Shaming Brian wasn't his aim. Far from it.

If only he could get a glimpse inside...

"Maybe it's the _heels_ " Erica theorizes in hushed tones, "Anita had stilettos on."

Roger whistles. "Now I _need_ to see-"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ -"

The drummer gently turns the door handle and opens the door just far enough for him to peer inside. Erica is ashamed of how fast she crouches to claim a vantage point of her own.

The scene unfolding within is a sight to behold.

Brian knelt on the ground, Anita towering over him. She wore only her lingerie. And the heels. Every now and then she drags them across the guitarist's body, digging her foot in whenever she didn't a raw enough reaction. The man's hands were bound with his own tie, they noticed, kept tight against his lower back. The actress produces a long strip of silver. An amp lead, by the looks of things. She snaps it out to its full length, mischief brewing in her eyes.

She's just about to strike again when Erica pushes the dressing room door shut. She'd seen enough.

" _Well_ ," Roger breathes, suddenly in dire need of another smoke, " _Fuck me_."

Erica smirks. "Inspired?" She can tell its his boyfriend the drummer is now thinking of.

"Never you mind, Salib."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been shouted at by a client every day since I started back (hurray me :-( !) so I thought I'd hop on here and cheer myself up with some writing!
> 
> I don't know where in Hell this idea came from! How do we feel about kinky stuff? I'd like to write more...
> 
> Planned some upcoming chapters! Next will be Roger and Ed angst :-) And then some more smut for them.
> 
> Let me know if there's anything else you really want to see!


	5. Killing Me Softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Ed fends off ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapter 26 of TATD

Ed hides behind heavily tinted sunglasses. He felt a prick for wearing them indoors. Some in the waiting room had recognized him from the television only to turn their noses up when they spotted his choice of eyewear. He could tell they thought him rude. None could compel him to remove the pair. He felt happier with them on. They hid the heavy circles beneath his eyes, lingering still from so many sleepless nights.

Adjusting to the outside world was difficult now he was definitively _back,_ more so than when he'd been released from rehab the first time around.

His therapist doesn't question him. She's kind, someone he trusts, if only to a small degree. "How are you doing, Ed?" she asks.

The journalist notes the way she balances her notebook on her knee, a blue ballpoint pen twirled between her index finger and thumb. She'd known him for some months by now and surely had pages upon pages of things written about him. All that sober frustration he'd vented at her. The walkouts when she'd dissected him a little too astutely.

A version of him gradually starting to slip away.

She senses his apprehension. "I won't patronize you, because I know this is the second time you've done this" she speaks, "But it's okay to feel overwhelmed. I hope you've found some safe spaces where you can go."

Ed nods. "I bought a house" he replies, surprising himself with his maturity, "My best mate lives just around the block."

He knew he was always welcome at the Deacons'. It made him feel better, knowing Erica was just a stone's throw away. Even if he wasn't able to make it outside, his anxiety too great, she could come to him. Take his urgent calls and be at the front door within minutes.

Maintaining his sobriety was a frightening task. It took a great deal of assistance for him to feel he was capable of it. He couldn't bear the thought of another relapse.

"That's good" the therapist smiles, "What about work?"

"I'm taking it easy. I'm on good terms with my boss". That boss, Tom, had an enormous crush on him. The feeling was reciprocated. He'd thought about reconnecting with him now he was free. Ask him out on a date, maybe.

Roger stumbles into his thoughts, that ever-persistent ghost. He was too ashamed to admit it, but Ed was still in love with the drummer. After all the dithering, the rejection, the lying. The claims that he wasn't with Debbie when he was. The hushed-up hook-ups. He was tired of it. Fed up waiting for Roger to show him the dedication he was owed.

Though Ed knew he'd gladly fall into bed with him again given the chance. 

The therapist frowns. "What is it?"

Ed shrugs. "Nothing."

* * *

He should never have stayed behind at the studio. The rest of the band had headed home, the crew too, and he'd _stayed_. Decided to keep Roger company. He was still mad about the way the drummer had fucked him over, the day of the Deacons' wedding. But Ed had humored him with polite conversation. Shared a little about why he'd ended up in rehab for a second time. 

Things had escalated, as they always did. They couldn't be trusted around each other.

The impassioned pleas for sanity Ed's conscience makes are tucked away discreetly. He tries to convince himself that there's some good in what they're doing and dives a hand between their melded hips. He makes quick work of Roger's top button. The drummer's cock greets him gladly, springing into his hand like the old friend that it was. The journalist spits into his palm and grasps him firmly.

A curious look crosses the pretty blue eyes trained on him. "Somewhere to be, Taylor?" Ed hums, leaning close to his ear. His fingers make confident motions at the other man's tip, only to withdraw, merciless.

Roger groans needily. "It's just-" he stutters, cheeks flushed, "You've just got out of rehab. I feel like I'm-"

" _What_? Taking advantage? Hasn't stopped you before."

The drummer pushes himself upward so he's pressed against the crotch of Ed's jeans. He grips the younger man's thighs, nails digging through the tight material. "Really hate me that much, do you?" he demands. He feigns a scowl though he dreads the answer. Fears that the loathing is real. It wouldn't be misplaced, in fairness. His fury was justified.

But Ed hesitates. He's a poor actor. His attempts to mask the doubt in his voice with venom fail. "I _do_ " he attempts to hurl, "I _hate_ you."

Roger growls and wraps the redhead's legs tighter about his middle. He steps up from his seat and carries him to the mixing desk opposite. Dave Richards would curse his name if he learned of what he planned. Ed immediately winces, the faders and knobs dotting the desk digging into him. In a flush of passion, Roger hadn't been able to see any other surface.

"Tell me again that you hate me" the blonde urges, parting his lover's legs.

Ed stutters, a calloused hand having wriggled its way past his waistband. He inhales sharply, briefs straining unbearably. Roger detects his torment and tears the pants down in one fluid motion. Fever claims him, the sort that would only wear off the morning after. "I-" he begins. He gulps, tormented headspace flooded with a lustful fog as Roger sinks to his knees before him. He loved him. " _I strongly dislike you_."

* * *

It was a wicked thought, no doubt, but Erica was starting to make him feel a little more comfortable with his instability. He couldn't quite bring himself to feel sorry about the Deacons' latest plight. It made him feel marginally more understood, bizarrely, her ranting and raving as she did.

Erica had hesitated in unloading. She'd checked beforehand, assuring him that she didn't want to occupy him with her troubles while he suffered so. She didn't want him to think she was comparing their situations, either. It was a difficult husband that she complained about. Her friend's lot was considerably direr.

"I'm sorry, Ed" she sighs, sipping the last of a very strong coffee, "I've been going on forever."

"I'm enjoying it, in a slightly sadistic way" Ed admits. He runs a painted nail along the rim of his own coffee cup. He waits for his inner demons to demand that he add a spirit of some kind to the drink. If they whined at all, he couldn't hear them. "John's a prick."

"Not always" Erica defends, "He's just having a rough time of it at the moment."

"And that makes it okay?" Ed tuts. "Men infuriate me."

He'd ended up taking Roger home after their encounter at the studio. To his surprise, the drummer hadn't bolted as soon as the sun rose. He'd still been there, arms wrapped around him, when morning arrived. He'd been kind, asked him a little more about how he was coping. Fucked him softly this time, in a way that Ed could almost mistake as _loving_.

He was gone by mid-afternoon. Said it was the studio he needed to get back to. Ed was desperate to believe him but he was convinced Debbie must have been a part of his day too.

Paranoid? Quite possibly.

"Tom's okay" Erica voices, a smirk dancing on lips, "Lovely, in fact."

"He is" Ed agrees.

"He'd treat you right. You know he's mad for you. Ask him out."

The man seeks out the telephone hung on the wall. Tom's number was pinned on the board next to it, scrawled in heavy red ink. They'd talked briefly since the wedding, flirted a little. Even shared a sweet, schoolboy's kiss at a work party. He was kind, considerate, generous. The love he'd always hoped for.

But what about Roger?

Erica can hear her friend's deliberations. "You can't keep waiting for Roger. I mean, I love that little pervert to death, but you deserve _better_."

"He might make up his mind" Ed considers, what felt like a last-ditch attempt.

"When? In this century or the next?"

" _Touche_."

Erica was the greatest comfort he'd ever known. But Ed was a romantic, too. He was desperate to be loved. To be shown the dedication and adoration his family had told him was a sin, a fast pass to Hell. The all-consuming warmth the alcohol had allowed him. The happiness his depression swore was a pipe dream. All this and more.

More than anything, he wanted to discover those things in Roger, for _good,_ unable to ripped away no matter what gorgeous woman turned his head.

He'd run out of patience.

Ed gets up, cycling through his finest pick-ups, checking with Erica which lines would work best, and steadies himself by the phone receiver. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't Roger he was trying to impress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Men infuriate Ed as much as they do the rest of us!
> 
> Sorry for the absence. Work's dreadful at the moment! My boyfriend's finally coming home to me next week though so that's cheered me up :-D
> 
> Hope you liked this one! Please leave any and all thoughts in the comments :-)


	6. Stressed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the Deacons have a lot of pent up frustration. Oh, and the bloke from A-ha turns up too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place some point during the later months of 1989. Smut warning, God Bless. 
> 
> I thought it'd be cool to explore one of the earlier reasons why E&E left the BBC. And also the stressfest that was '89 in the Deacon household.

Another day at the BBC, another complaint. As usual, it concerned the same two characters.

Mr. Reed, or Tom as he was known now he and Ed were an item, regards his star pair from across his desk, one in a series of recent summons. Together the journalists had traipsed into his office, halfway between shoulders hung heavy in guilt and cocksure grins.

They wanted to appear as though they weren't bothered by the criticism aimed their way, but it was becoming tiring.

"What's the problem this time?" Ed fires, resting his feet atop Tom's desk, "We cut the cursing right down the last episode. And we booked _Cliff Richard_ for fuck's sake. Hardly the most offensive act, is he?"

"Offensively _bad_ , maybe" Erica chimes, "I told you we should have risked it with Guns N' Roses."

"If we could concentrate" Tom warns, brushing his lover's feet off his files. Ed's jaw drops in surprise. He forces the man into further silence with an interrogative stare. "Oh I see" the redhead complains, "All the things you let me do to you, and putting my feet on the table is _too much_ -"

" _Anyway_ " Tom appeals, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He'd forgotten how exhausting they could be when they were together. "It's the politics again."

Ed and Erica give an elongated groan. They should have known. The show's producers had warned them to edit the scripts a little, but they'd refused. The original jokes hadn't even been that bad.

But they'd been in a bad mood, depressed with current affairs, and they'd ended up sailing a little too close to the wind.

Erica grapples to find some neutrality in what they'd said on air. "We didn't say we hated Margaret Thatcher _outright_."

"You spent ten minutes sarcastically agreeing with her and then reminded the audience to register to vote."

Ed scoffs. “So we're not even allowed to encourage people to vote?"

"Not when you also suggest _how_ they ought to vote, no."

Something stirs in Erica's gut, an uneasy sensation. It pulsated almost, intense one second and dull the next. She wipes her brow and returns to the argument. "If it's not the politics, it's our outfits. Or the swearing. Or the guests" she pleads, "We never had this many restrictions placed on us when we started the show. It's infuriating."

"The stakes are higher. You two are worth a lot. The big bosses don't want to risk anything."

Ed still isn't impressed. He cackles humorlessly then shakes his head. "Longer hours for the same pay _and_ less creative freedom? _Great_ " he protests, "But at least we're making the rich guys even richer, right?" He appeals to his friend for a high-five or a supportive comment of some kind. He finds her crouched over a little in her seat, hands massaging the sides of her stomach.

Tom peers curiously at the woman. "Everything alright?" he asks, concerned.

Erica has to gulp hard, lest she vomit all over the poor man's desk. The uneasiness in her belly had suddenly grown unbearable. She was certain the room span. The stress was getting too much. There was the _other thing_ , too, but she was still in denial about that.

She just about manages to reengage, choosing to ignore the baffled looks aimed her way. "If at some point in the future we walk out of this place," she says, "Don't be surprised."

* * *

Little George was the antidote Erica needed. She'd rushed up to her daughter's nursery as soon as she arrived home. Part of her was put-off by the decor; the bassinet and all the toddler-appropriate toys, the grocery bag filled with fresh diapers resting on the teddy bear-shaped chair in the corner. Little things that pushed thoughts of _babies_ right to the forefront of her mind.

But George was delightful. Always smiling and giggling. The most precious thing she'd ever have.

A hot bath proved another helpful outlet. She'd skipped on her usual glass of wine, for obvious reasons. An extra scented candle was compensation. Bubbles clinging to her skin, she'd emerged in a cloud of steam, and found John tucked up in bed.

"Feel better?" he asks, cozy in a cotton pajama set. He pulls back the covers for his wife and pats the space beside him.

Erica climbs in gladly, humming as the sheets settle around her. "A little. My head's still hurting from the stress" she sighs, wishing her head would sink into her pillow entirely.

"A good night's sleep is all you need" John reasons. He sounds a little flippant, only half-focused. He had a novel resting before him but he didn't appear overly interested. Erica watches him from the corner of her eye. He doesn't flip a single page, just stares at the one his bookmark set out.

She'd thought the completion of _The Miracle_ would alleviate his worries. It hadn't. He snapped less, however. Was more loving.

 _Loving_ sounded like a damn good idea, as it happened. Her sickness had faded and her bath had left her feeling just limber enough. The tension in her head remained. What better way to relieve it than a good old shag?

A plan forming, Erica slides over to John's side. "It's lonely on my side" she coos, covering his hand with hers, encouraging him to put his book aside. "You always know how to make me feel better."

The bassist smiles proudly. "I do have something in mind" he offers.

Erica feels her stomach flutter, in a good way for a change. She lets her touch drift a little lower, just teasing with the idea of slipping beneath the covers. "Tell me" she croons.

John reaches over to his nightstand and opens the top drawer. Erica sees him remove something. She had a pretty good guess. It was sweet of him, she thought, given how careless she could be with her birth control. Sweet but _pointless_ , given her secret predicament.

"A good suck and you'll be all better."

Erica gasps. His words go right to her clit. She loved hearing him talk dirty. He didn't do it very often and was clumsy with it, but it turned her on regardless.

She's ready to climb on top of him until he passes her a carton of cigarettes.

"Enjoy," he says.

Erica regards the smokes in disbelief. He _must_ have understood her meaning. Was he trying to be funny? At this point, she was too frustrated to laugh. She presses on, her core steadily throbbing, and leans so close to his ear she could feel the fuzz of his cheeks brush her skin. "I prefer my cigarettes after sex" she teases.

John gulps. His demons warn him against indulging his fantasies. He worried his rampant anxiety would make a struggle to get it up, frankly, and he was still upset with himself for arguing with her so much over recent months. They'd not gone all the way since their last excursion to Bali, that magical place where all feuds died for a week or two. But they were in London now, back amidst the stresses of their busy lives.

"That's not true" he stutters, "You like post-breakfast cigarettes. The cigarettes you sneak in your office at work. Cigarettes with Fred when you visit the studio-"

Erica flips over crossly. "I get it, John". She slams the carton to the carpet. She wouldn't have been able to enjoy them anyway.

He spends his night pretending to read his novel while he commiserates over all the sex he wasn't having, and she spends hers staring at the opposite side of the bedroom, wishing she'd stayed amongst the bubbles a little longer.

* * *

Ed and Erica had never had to issue a public apology before. They'd been encouraged to, like when Motley Crue visited and trashed the set. The powers that be had intervened this time. A statement had promptly been drawn up and added to the autocue.

The audience are baffled, though some titter. They seemed to be anticipating a bit. Another run of tongue-in-cheek jokes. They wouldn't get them. It was humiliating. The worst way to start a show.

"Before we begin, we just wanted to apologize for some of the remarks we made during the last episode" Ed begins, alarmingly somber.

"Making partisan potshots was wrong of us, and we'd like to withdraw it all" Erica agrees. She just about hears herself. The words sounded hollow to her ears. She could tell from the gallery of frowns filling the tiered seating that none of them believed her.

It felt like selling out. Betraying her values.

"We also apologize for the personal remarks we made about the Prime Minister-"

Someone in the audience boos. Another joins in, then another. Suddenly the scripted apology is drowned out by the crowd, eyes alight with fury. Ed and Erica don't beg for calm. They deserved dissent.

It was a betrayal of the fans, also. The people they'd vowed to stand up for so long as they had the platform that they did.

The director intervenes, calling for the cameras to cut. "Settle this lot down, will you?" he barks, "Then we'll try again."

* * *

The cafe is boring, one of those trendy places that popped up on every streetcorner the second a small business went under. The tea was average, the pastries lackluster. Erica manages very little of either, her intestines condemned to somersaults once more. Chin resting on the tabletop, she stirs her drink, idly awaiting the _clinks_ the spoon made whenever it hit the china.

"You look about as impressed as I am" comes a gentle voice. "Mind if I join you?" Erica nods wordlessly, those charming Norweigan tones breaking the barriers through which a hundred buried memories flooded.

They'd seen each other plenty of times since the end of their brief relationship. They were actually rather good friends. John had never taken to him, never made an effort to understand why his wife kept the singer around.

Morten Harket takes the seat opposite. He sets his cup next to hers. It didn't seem he was enjoying his tea either. He defends his appearance at the cafe hurriedly. "I've got a few days before the tour starts," he says, "Thought I'd explore the city a little."

"And _this_ is where you decided on?" his ex chuckles, "What great taste we both have."

"I'm a man of fine taste, I'll have you know" Morten grins, exposing the adorable little gap between his two front teeth.

"You did go out with me, after all". Erica regrets making the joke. It hit a little oddly, given their past.

He isn't offended. Encouraged, if anything. " _I did_ " he states, almost proudly.

Erica assures herself it's just her burgeoning hormones making her cheeks redden. He changes the subject before she can embarrass herself further.

"What's up?" the man asks, "I can tell somethings bothering you."

" _Work_. _Home_. The usual" she shrugs, "I won't burden you with it."

Morten tuts. An infectious smile spreads across his features, those beautiful eyes of his brightening a shade or two. "Don't be silly" he comforts, "What are friends for?" He reaches across the table for his tea.

Erica feels her throat dry up the longer he gazed at her. She reaches for hers.

Like something from a soppy rom-com, only with less grace, their hands collide. She withdraws first. She makes a show of her fingers as she pulls them away, wanting him to clock the wedding band on her finger. He knew she was married, but a little reminder wouldn't hurt. She hates herself for wondering whether she was also reminding herself.

They mumble their apologies.

Morten clears his throat, the enamored haze fading from his vision. "If you need a good vent, I know a nice bar just around the block."

"I'm not drinking at the moment". Erica takes a deep breath. "I'm pregnant. John doesn't know yet". It felt odd acknowledging it. 

"Congratulations" the singer beams, "I'm happy for you."

She could tell he meant it. It was clear to her he still fancied her to some degree, but still he was pleased for her. _Glad_. It was endearing. The maturity of it. She didn't like to ruin the moment by telling him she hated pregnancy. 

"How about another drink then? To celebrate?" he suggests, "We don't have to stay at this cafe."

Erica pushes her chair back faster than anything. Her head was aching again and she was desperate for a decent brew. " _Please_ , lead the way."

* * *

Stomach soothed by several cups of tea, Erica returns home. It's evening, later than she'd intended. Morten had proved himself a reliable counsel as things stood. He'd listened without judgment. Cheered her up with carefree tales from the road when she grew agitated. Sympathized with her when she told him about her latest fiasco at work.

She'd felt better until she noticed John lingering in the kitchen doorway.

"Where've you been?" he asks, innocent enough.

"Out with a friend" the woman answers, "I did call you."

John nods, feigning a smile. "Which friend?"

Erica rolls her eyes. She was tempted to lie, well aware of how insecure her husband could be when in a fragile state. She treats him to the truth. " _Morten_."

Again, he nods. His expression stiffens, but he tries his best to be grown-up about it. He spent time with Ronnie, after all. Double standards weren't his thing, at least not when he was conscious of them. "That's okay."

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

John holds his hands up placatingly. "I didn't mean it in a glib way."

"Oh _really_? _God_ , if it isn't work on my back, it's you."

Erica isn't sure why she snapped. She thought she'd released all her stress while she was out. Blaming the baby was too easy. She's immediately remorseful. John had so many issues of his own to confront. What use was bickering over nothing?

Alas, he wasn't in a brilliant frame of mind. "You're being defensive" he states, "Which makes me think there's something else going on."

A fierce chill darts along his wife's spine. "What are you suggesting?"

"I think you know."

Erica suddenly feels nauseous again. "Get a grip" she growls, incredulous, "Do you really think I'd ever do that to you? Especially when I'm-" She stops dead. The break is too harsh to be ignored.

John blinks hard. "When you're what?"

Heart beating fast, shoulders excruciatingly tense, Erica makes a beeline for the staircase. John steps out from the shadows, apologetic. He was _sad_ , she noticed, _tired_. He looked vulnerable. Like even the slightest jealous notion could topple him. "Love?" he persists, "What's wrong?"

Erica hastily brushes a tear from her eye. " _Nothing_."

* * *

She'd considered sleeping in the spare room, but the bed was too cold. George's nursery had been her next consideration. She'd lasted ten minutes or so on the floor next to her daughter's crib before her back began to complain.

She missed John, too. The smell of him, the warmth he radiated. He was such a comfort to her. Her favorite remedy. She'd never demand anything of him, but it upset her when he wasn't there for her. Made her feel lonely. The walls were closing in all around her, and she'd been hit with a baby she hadn't planned for. She needed him, _desperately_.

And so, she returns to him, as she always would.

John's still awake, studying the ceiling for cracks, tormenting himself. He doesn't notice his wife at first, just feels a soft breeze as the bedsheets lift. He's lifted from his imaginary paint chips by the sensation of her sliding onto his lap, legs secure around his middle. Her voice is low, just about audible above the flight of a car passing along the street beyond.

"I'm sorry," Erica whispers.

"Me too" he utters, "I've not been there for you lately."

"I need you, John. So much."

She presses her lips to his. The taste is sweet as sugar and perfect in every way. Mellow hues dance behind her eyelids. They grow more vivid as the kisses progress, more erratic. A red haze begins to affect her. She yearns for what no one else could ever give her, not even Morten. She craved release. _Calm_.

John runs his tongue along her bottom lip. How he could feel so worked up, but so peaceful, he couldn't understand. Reluctantly, he parts from her, ragged breaths lost against her cheek. "Let me take care of you" he speaks.

Tenderly, he turns her onto her back. He waits for permission before sliding a hand beneath her top. He lifts it over her head, helping her when the sleeve gets caught on her elbow. Gently stroking his greying hair, Erica guides him down to her breasts. She flinches when his mouth grazes her nipple, the wetness there delightfully warm. His kisses travel gradually downward. She straightens up instinctively when he pulls her shorts down her legs.

"Lie back for me, love" John purrs, threading his fingers with hers, "Relax."

Erica almost shoots off the mattress again when he presses a finger against her. He eases in gently before following it with a second. She's tight, walls molding around him perfectly. A beautiful sigh slips from her. She wriggles her hips, encouraging him to start pumping. He does so slowly, each and every sound she made imprinting upon him like notes on a sheet of music. "I want to make you feel good."

Erica tries to grip onto his curls, her neediness betraying her, but he bats her away. She tries again but is denied. John ends up having to pin her hands to the bed. "Do as you're told now, love" he utters, "There's a good girl."

Wetting his lips, he settles his mouth around her clit. He relaxes her with light strokes of his tongue. " _Oh, John_ " he hears. He buries his fingers a little deeper, pulling out between movements to swirl the tips through her wetness. He dips his lips there a few times, too, the taste of her divine. He forgets himself, increases his speed.

Erica yelps, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. "Gently, Habibi" she pleads. John obeys. He works her steadily, delighted when he begins to feel her buck beneath him, around him. She doesn't mind finishing so fast. It was exactly what she'd needed. She repeats her husband's name like a mantra as she climaxes, back arching. John feels her legs tremble around him. He eases her through the waves of her orgasm until she has to pry his head away, left over-sensitive.

John lies back, pleased with himself. He could see Erica's face now. Appreciate the wild beauty of her features, her brow coated with sweat, her raven hair stuck up in all directions from where she'd been throwing her head against her pillow. "You're so stunning" he compliments, brushing her baby hairs from her eyes for her.

Senses alight, Erica eases herself on top of him. She slinks further along his lithe form, mischief on her mind, until she rests at his crotch. He'd cleared enjoyed hearing her whimper for him. He must be uncomfortable, she thought, his pajama pants straining as they did. She eases them down, ending his misery. John eyes her skeptically but makes no effort to stop her. "You don't have to do that" he reassures her.

"I want to" Erica murmurs. She wets her hand with her mouth seductively before running her thumb over the tip of his cock. She runs the length of him before forming a soft grip at his base. She jerks her wrist, gradually gaining momentum. She lets go to spit into her palm before carrying on, not once avoiding his frenzied gaze. "Oh, shit" John exhales. He bites his lip, nails digging into the sheets.

"Do you want my mouth, Habibi?" she asks. Her turn. "Just nod for me". She waits for him to nod, which he does, that adorable man reduced to boyish blushes. He'd been so in control when he was eating her out. She loved how flawlessly the dynamics between them could switch when they made love.

Erica trails kisses along his erection and runs circles around the hood with her tongue. She takes a little of him into her mouth at first, letting her throat get used to the feeling. The sensation blinding, John presses himself into her inadvertently. Erica gags. She can hear him mumbling an apology, ready to pull out, but she urges him on. Takes him all, doing her best not to choke.

"You take me so well, love" John praises, "So beautiful."

Glowing radiantly, Erica ups her tempo. She hums around him, licking, sucking, doing whatever she could to push him over the edge. She can feel him getting close. She gets off on it. _Fuck_ , she wanted him to finish. To paint her mouth. Curse loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

John lifts her chin. He rubs her swollen lips with his thumb. "Not yet" he pants, "I need you."

Erica climbs back above the covers. Straddling him, she dives a hand to where their hips meet. Again, John hesitates, inching toward his nightstand once more. It definitely wasn't cigarettes he was going to hand her this time.

"We don't need one" Erica relates, ignoring the rubber offered to her.

John's eyes widen inadvertently. "Are you sure?" he inquires, "What if you-"

 _But she already was_.

"It's fine," she says.

John needs no further instruction. He's certain he won't last long. He perceived a risk and it excited him. The thought of sliding into her, free and raw. He's amazed he doesn't finish as soon as she positions herself onto him.

"Oh, Habibi" Erica sings, sinking around his cock.

John wraps his arms around her, cradling her closely. He gasps against her chest when she starts to move. She steadies herself on his shoulders, steering confidently. He hits her just right. A guttural cry chokes out from her. " _Oh my God,_ " she moans, tightening her pussy about his length.

He sees the stars that she sees. Witnesses the celestial glow that she basks in. Watches her ride him, head hung back in ecstasy, and it's the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He starts to thrust upward, matching the rhythmic patterns of her hips. He tightens his hold on her, the end creeping near. His excitement feeds into hers. Free from her pain, at last, she sprints toward her climax. Four deep strokes later and she's biting into his neck. "Don't hold it in, love" John coaxes, "Let it all out for me, go on."

" _Fuck_ " she cries, entreating the Heavens. She seems to drift there for a minute or two, the pleasure hitting her so hard she shakes. Her thighs begin to wobble around him. She just about feels her husband's cock begin to jump, and then he's finishing loudly, her name painted on his tongue.

They collapse onto the mattress, wheezing frantically.

Erica pulls John into her arms, nursing him kindly. She strokes his greying locks while he regains his breath.

"I'll pop out first thing and get you the Plan B" he puffs.

Erica doesn't even consider shielding him any longer. She felt perfectly at ease with the world, all her worries forgotten in a gorgeous post-fuck blur. She felt invincible, invulnerable to her bosses' slights, and even her baby-related terrors. "No need," she tells him.

"What do you mean?" John wonders, surprised by the change in her. He lets her guide his hands to her belly.

"I'm pregnant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually turned out a lot more vanilla than in my original draft.
> 
> I'm getting more confident with smut I think! I was very intimidated at first but I hope I'm getting the hang of it. Any pointers anyone?
> 
> I've missed Morten! I wish he'd appeared more in the original story. Perhaps he'll make an appearance in some oncoming angstier storylines *evil laughter* If you'd be up for that, let me know :-)


	7. Diamonds Are A Boy's Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Fred is the voice of reason.
> 
> Takes place sometime between chapters 34 and 35 of TATD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT:
> 
> I'm sure by now you've heard about the shooting of Jacob Blake. I'm sick to my stomach. I'm so tired of incidents like these. My heart goes out to Jacob's family. We don't live far from Kenosha so this is especially troubling.
> 
> Here's the Color of Change petition: tinyurl.com/yy7378bb
> 
> Here's the Milwaukee Freedom Fund: supportwomenshealth.salsalabs.org/mkefreedomfund/index.html
> 
> This article has a list of contacts crucial to ensuring that Jacob's attackers face justice: tinyurl.com/y48ywhtl

Roger had never felt more out of place. A jeweler's, rather exclusive, and hidden away from similar outlets on a side street deep within the city. Freddie knew the place well. He got all his jewels and accessories from that particular boutique. " _Everything I don't get from Tiffany's_ " he'd declared loftily.

It wasn't that Roger didn't enjoy the finer things in life. He absolutely did. He'd indulged himself regularly from the moment he'd been able to afford to, when the band started hitting the charts. It was the emotional weight of the journey that troubled him so.

He was picking out a ring for the person he was in love with.

"What are you actually after, darling?" Freddie questions, lifting the brim of his baseball cap just enough for him to meet his friend's eyes. He fidgeted with other elements of his disguise, like the zipper of the jacket fastened right up to his neck. It was essential. He made few public appearances, his physical state deteriorating at a frightening rate, and he wanted to avoid unfriendly speculation as much as he could.

"If it's an engagement ring, they're ten a penny."

"I don't know."

Roger regards the endless rows of finery. So many beautifully cut stones and glimmering bands. Silver, gold, platinum. Diamond, sapphire, ruby. Where to begin? He knew it was a ring he wanted, but what he wanted that ring to _say_ he wasn't certain of. "Would it be a bit forward? An engagement ring?"

Fred snorts. "After all these years of your damn on-off relationship?" he tuts, "I should think not."

"If you're really serious about Ed this time, show it."

Roger was certain he was. He'd never been more sure of anything. He'd stopped messing partners about. Ed had got his addictions under control. They were both in the right place. Their love was strong and seemingly unbreakable. If ever there was a moment to firmly commit, this was it.

"But what would it actually mean?" he ponders, "An _engagement ring_? It's not like we can actually get hitched. We're two blokes."

Freddie sighs. He readjusts the golden band he wears on his wedding finger, his own token of commitment from Jim. "Fuck all that" he voices, "It means whatever you want it to."

Roger nods at that. _Fair enough_ , he thinks. Who gave a shit what the law had to say? If he wanted to consider Ed husband, he damn well would.

A particularly impressive piece draws his attention. Sat behind a protective sheet of glass, atop a velvet cushion, set a sparkling silver ring. Diamonds ran along the band, meeting at a large marquise cut piece in the middle. He pokes a finger at the screen, earning him a disapproving glance from the snooty cashier. "I've got one like this" he observes.

"If you've already got one, what are we doing here?" Freddie tuts. He lowers his hat again. The handful of customers dotted about the store were starting to stare. He was terrified one of them would reveal themselves as a paparazzo.

"I got it as a gift for Debbie. Not as an engagement ring. Just something pretty. It's just like that one". He'd never gotten around to giving it to her. They'd broken up not long after he purchased it. He wasn't even sure where it was. It was a shame. It was _perfect_. It'd suit Ed quite well if his memory didn't deceive him.

Roger snaps his fingers in the air. _That was it_. He'd hidden on the top shelf of Debbie's closet, amongst a pile of sweaters he knew she didn't wear anymore. It wouldn't still be there, surely? Then again...

Fred is already skeptical. "If you're even _thinking_ of giving him a ring you bought for someone else-"

The drummer shakes his head. "Don't be daft."

* * *

"Thanks, Deb."

Their infant son fast asleep in her arms, Debbie smiles warmly. She shows her ex to the door, satisfied that he'd found what he was looking for. She was a little confused. He'd tried to disguise his true intent at first, claiming he'd left a favorite pair of socks of his behind. Then she'd discovered him balancing atop her dresser, searching frantically through her closet.

He still hadn't explained why he wanted the ring. He was apologetic at least. "This feels shitty" Roger acknowledges, "Are you sure you don't want it?"

"Rog, I didn't even know it existed. I can't be offended over losing a gift I never actually got" Debbie reasons.

"I guess."

Roger studies the box. Velvety and pristine, if a little speckled with dust. He'd checked the ring inside. It was just as he'd remembered it. Like the band at the jewelry store but a thousand times better. Ed _had_ to like it.

"Why do you want it?"

"For Ed". Roger's confused when his proud grin is met with a frown. "What? Don't you think he'll like it?"

Debbie groans softly, mindful of waking their kid up. "Don't you think he'd prefer something that wasn't bought for his boyfriend's ex?"

"It's not like you've worn it."

The woman already has a hand on the door handle. "When he dumps you, I'm _not_ taking you back."

* * *

Freddie sports his best 'I told you so' look. He and Jim make a superbly judgemental pair from where they sat on the opposite couch, legs crossed, cups, and saucers resting on their knees. Jim is particularly bewildered. "Engagement rings are something so personal," he says, "It should be bought for them, and only them."

Roger glances at the ring box. It sits on the Mercury's coffee table, neglected. He'd been so confident about it until he arrived home. Ed had waltzed out onto the porch to greet him, his beloved 'World's Best Wife' apron fastened about his middle. "Welcome home, honey" he'd crooned, gorgeous and ethereal beneath the afternoon sun.

He'd realized his mistake. Ed deserved better.

He claws at his hair. "I don't want to trail around all the jewelry stores again."

Fred shudders. "Nor me". Jim readjusts the blanket cast around his husband's shoulders. The two men huddle closer, hands bumping together. They blush unashamedly. "I can't stand the idea of the newspapers catching me."

"I'm sorry, Fred" Roger sighs, "I shouldn't have dragged you out with me."

The singer sips his tea demurely. "I'll feel an awful lot better when you settle down. For _good_. So for the love of God, figure it out."

The drummer gulps. That was as clear a warning as any.

Part of him questioned the need for rings. He could declare his desire to spend the rest of his life with Ed without out all that, right? Why be so conventional about it? It wasn't as though they had anything to prove.

But he did like the idea of offering his lover _something_. Material things weren't totally hollow.

"None of the bands we looked at stood out to me."

"Who says it has to be a _ring_?" Fred attests.

"True. Ed wears earrings, I could-"

Freddie laughs. "I mean it can be anything, so long as it means something to the two of you". He threads his fingers with Jim's. "There are so many ways to express love."

Roger chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. What would best suit him and Ed's relationship? A bag of cocaine, a tongue-in-cheek nod to how they got started? He chuckles to himself at the thought but doesn't seriously entertain the idea. Perhaps a song, the musician's preferred means of showcasing affection. That road had worked well for John. But was it too cliche?

He comforts himself with visions from earlier in the day, when his boyfriend had rushed out to greet him, cheerful sentiments on his lips, arms open, the splashes of ingredients from the special meal he cooked dotted over his apron.

Roger's brows raise inadvertently.

"It can be _anything_ you say?"

* * *

Ed hadn't been home long. Roger finds him leaning across the breakfast bar, nursing a sweet tea. He still wore his work threads, one of his more creative outfits. Plaid pants, a blouse from the woman's section of the thrift store on the corner and Doc Marten boots. A swipe of black glitter over his eyelids finished the look.

Ed often got odd stares from the city's move conservative residents. Roger thought he was _beautiful_. The most captivating blend of masculine and feminine. The sight spurs him on. Serves as another reminder of why he wanted to come home to the man every day.

"Hello, love" Ed greets sleepily, beaming as his partner approaches. He reaches for another cup and pours him a brew. "Good day?"

Roger takes a deep breath. He withdraws his gift from behind his back. " _Hopefully_."

" _Ooh_ " Ed coos. He gestures to the parcel. "I hope that's for me."

"Who else?" Oh fuck, he hoped he'd appreciate it.

Ed peels back the brown paper as soon as the gift is presented to him. He finds a neatly folded square of cloth inside. He lifts it, allowing it to fall into its full shape. "An apron!" he notes. He turns it around so he can view the front. Printed into the material were bold black letters, the exact same typeface as the other one he owned.

Only this one read 'World's Best _Husband_ '

The other had been a heartfelt joke. Something silly for them to wear, when they'd pretend they were the other's devoted housewife. The new apron was just as amusing to them, but its meaning ran a little deeper. Confirmation that if Roger didn't already view him as a husband, he would someday.

A promise. An _engagement_ , whether they spoke it or not.

"Do you like it?" Roger asks.

Ed throws the head loop around his lover's neck, then fastens the ties. He pats the other man's ass for good measure, then snakes an arm around his waist. "It's perfect" he smiles, tracing his bottom lip tenderly, "Absolutely perfect."

Roger watches the man's lips, eager for a kiss. "We've got a matching set now."

"It's not just that," Ed says, leaning near, "You really are the best partner in all the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the absence! I've been making up for lost time with my bf ;-)
> 
> What content would you guys like to see? Any prompts? Anything you're still curious about now TATD is over?
> 
> Also please see the comment I left on the last chapter and reply with your thoughts if you have any!


	8. 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, we travel back in time to a very special concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I had Rog and Ed's honeymoon chapter planned (it's in its second draft!) but I got this idea while I was ignoring my work spreadsheets and had to give it a try :-) 
> 
> This is pre-TATD! Set some point in 1984 after The Works has been released
> 
> Oh and Matt reappears in this one. Remember him?

The lights dim and the cameras cut out. The producer retreats to his car the moment he's certain they're off-air. He leaves his presenters and his crew to wait for their cabs.

It had been a standard gig. Another update on the massive storm heading the capital's way. Two of the BBC's youngest and brightest had been presented with a handful of tasks. First, to write a script for the update, then to present it on TV. 

Erica dashes to the sidewalk and under the large umbrella being held by Ed. She'd drawn the short straw. At least the script Ed had written was relatively brief. She hadn't had to stand in the rain for too long. She's quite busy lamenting the dampness of her new jacket, however, when she notices her colleague isn't paying the slightest bit of attention.

She lifts the edge of his woolen hat to reveal heavy headphones. She follows the lead from his ears to his coat pocket. A Sony Walkman is concealed within, the cassette running along quite happily. She pulls the jack out. Ed comes to with a splutter. "What're you doing?" he spits incredulously, "I'm listening to that."

"I'm freezing my ass off and you're enjoying a silent disco."

The man fumbles for the cord. "You told me not to mention _them_ " he argues, sticking his nose in the air pointedly, "Said thinking about the concert was banned until work was done."

Erica peers at the cassette he'd chosen. ' _The Works - Queen_ '. She plugs the headphones back in and huddles near. "What track were you on?" she babbles, "Is it _Tear It Up_? Because that one's growing on me."

Ed chuckles. He knew she wouldn't be able to avoid hearing about the band for long. It was about time she accepted her excitement as he had. "Hammer to Fall" he answers.

Erica whistles ecstatically. "I fucking _love_ that track. The _solo_ in it?" she exclaims, "I can't wait until we hear it live."

Her friend clicks the play button and wraps an arm around her shoulders. He lifts his right earcup so she can hear the sound blasting out. "Not long now, sweetheart" he grins, "Just a matter of days."

* * *

The latest episode of Top of the Pops did little to distract them from the wait. Queen featured heavily in the charts. One of the new music videos was shown. _It's A Hard Life_. A damn good song. The costumes always made the pair giggle though. Ed always said that Freddie's get-up reminded him of a lobster. "He's a sexy lobster" he'd always add.

"Why can't we work in the music department?" the red-head sighs, releasing a light cloud of smoke.

Erica just about makes him out above the haze. "We will one day" she asserts, "We won't be stuck with _traffic_ and _weather_ forever."

"We will if Mr. Michaels has anything to do with it" Ed grumbles.

If their boss didn't already despise them for being, in his words, a " _gobby Arab_ " and a " _jumped-up poof_ ", he hated their ambition. They were both twenty-two, just a year out of university. They'd done well to get where they were. But it wasn't enough. They weren't sure what _enough_ even was. Whether they'd ever know.

Erica stubs her blunt out, satisfied with the effect. "I bet you this time next year we'll be on our way."

Ed giggles. "How much?"

The young woman grimaces. "Can't be much. I'm just about making rent at the moment."

A knock on the door just about cuts through their shared stupor. Erica stumbles to answer it and is surprised by who she finds on the front step. Ed spots the figure from where he's slumped on the rug. "Oh for-"

"Nice to see you too, Tetley" Matt fires.

The ginger balls a spare rolling paper up in his fist and flicks it at him. "Don't taint this place with your influence, demon."

Erica regards her former flame with disdain. "We're on a break," she says crossly, "You can't just turn up."

Matt holds his hands up defensively. He paints on his best puppy-like pout. "I've missed you, Erica" he whines.

"Pity."

He runs a hand through his blonde mullet. Erica doesn't miss the way he tries to flex his non-existent biceps. She recognized the gestures as his attempt at being _seductive_. She exhales heavily, sobering before his eyes. She'd fallen for such pathetic tricks before. How long before she did so again?

"Can't we at least talk it over again?" Matt insists, taking a step forward, "Iron out the creases? We're so good together, babe. Let's give it another shot, yeah?"

Ed sits up, narrowed eyes tracking the ex's every movement. He didn't like the way he was trying to force his way into the apartment. He knew why the couple had separated. Matt was an A-class manipulator, impossibly toxic when he wanted to be. He's relieved when he hears Erica's next declaration.

" _No_."

She slams the door shut. Ed waits for her to break into a relieved smile, but her expression only sours. She chews her lip anxiously, shifting from foot to foot. He knew that look. "Don't do it" he pleads, "Erica, you deserve better-"

Too late. Erica's wrenching the door open again and dashing into the hallway. She catches Matt just as he reaches the elevators. "Call me tomorrow" she invites, tracing his cheek with her thumb. She lets him draw her into a kiss. It isn't pleasant, the passion remarkably one-sided. She was so desperate for affection that she'd just gone with it.

Ed greets her upon her return like a disappointed parent. He switches the TV set off and folds his arms, brow furrowed deeply. "How many times? How many times have we been here?"

Slightly nauseous, Erica reaches for her stash. She tries to avoid her friend's gaze while she rolls herself another joint. "I know, I know" she groans, "I'm just lonely, y'know? My head's been such a mess since mom died. I just need-" She glances into her lap. "I just need someone to _love_ me."

" _I_ love you" Ed replies. He jerks his head. "I'm not shagging you, though, so don't get any ideas."

Erica laughs. She slips onto the floor beside him and hands him the smoke, wanting him to enjoy the first drag. "Never mind our careers taking off in a year's time," he says, "By next year, I want you to have found someone who actually deserves you."

* * *

The stage is bathed in light. Blue, red, green. It all washes together, frantic and brilliant. The sound was immense, so strong the floor shook. Four artists moved between the rigs, all of them lost in the performance. A devilishly handsome man with a dark mustache takes center place and lifts his vest to reveal a pair of fake breasts.

Ed and Erica had been to countless rock shows over the years. They were forever saving their wages in hopes of seeing one of the greats. This was surely the _greatest_. There was so much to enjoy. So much to hear. So much t look at. A consummate masterpiece. They'd loved every second so far.

They'd sweet-talked their way into securing a place at the very front of the auditorium. They were closer than they'd ever dreamed they be. Just out of reaching distance. It was as good as they were ever going to get, surely?

The keyboard break from _Radio Ga Ga_ kicks in and the crowd goes wild.

The shimmying of the band member on the left-hand side catches Erica's attention. The bassist, hopping around as though no one was watching, delightfully tall perm swaying with every move. She smiles to herself, captivated by his every gesticulation. He was drop-dead handsome, tight white pants hugging his legs, an open shirt to match, his chest on show. His fingers glide across the fretboard, not a note out of place.

"I'm not sure about his haircut" Ed voices, just about audible even at a yell.

"I think it's cute" Erica shouts back.

Ed's focus travels a little more. He'd been quite fascinated by the guitarist's maneuvers for a while. He must be a demigod of some kind, he surmised. Very few looked that good after such rigorous playing. He'd screamed when the amplifiers first burst into life, that familiar anthem _We Will Rock You_ sending everyone into a frenzy.

He notices the drummer throw his sticks into the air, swiftly replacing them with a new set. He barely misses a beat. Continues without a millisecond's pause. It was _brilliant_. A testament to how fucking _good_ the group was. He watches the drumkit a little more as the concert progresses. Notices things about the drummer he hadn't noticed as much in magazines and on TV. Like the sheer ethereal beauty of his features. The cocksure smirk lingering near-permanently on his lips.

He hoped he was as nice socially as he was to look at. Celebrities were too often arrogant in person, not that Ed had ever actually met any. He refused to believe that the blonde in the band was that way. No, he was a good man. Cheeky, self-assured, but _good_. Maybe one day he'd get proof of his theory?

Ed shakes the notion away. The singer's fake tits fly over his head and are caught by a grateful fan. No, he thinks, this was as close as he'd ever be.

* * *

Erica spies the stage door, and the tour bus waiting nearby. She and a handful of others hung around under the guise of enjoying a cigarette. They stood near, but not close enough to warrant an approach from security. Rumor amongst the gaggle of fans was that one member of the band had quietly slipped onto the bus without being seen.

She couldn't imagine any of them being that inconspicuous. Well, except the one. But he was a master of evasion, wasn't he?

She's quietly musing on what the bassist must be like to know when Ed approaches, refreshed after a trip to the bathroom. "Any glimpses of them?" he asks, accepting the smoke offered to him, "I feel like a right creep hanging around here."

Erica considers the stage door again. "How do people manage to get invites backstage at concerts?" she ponders, "My mom was always doing it in the sixties."

Ed snorts to himself. "Well she was a groupi-" He's shot down by a stern stare. "A _fan_. A _very loyal fan_."

The woman huffs. She didn't like the idea of following those particular footsteps of her mother's. Then again, she was desperate to meet the group. The security guards didn't appear too aloof. Perhaps they could be persuaded...

She pulls the neck of her dress down a little lower and readjusts her bra. Ed spots her rapidly growing cleavage. He knew precisely what she planned. "Isn't that sort of thing against your principles as a feminist?" he offers, feigning objection.

Erica pushes her chest out proudly. "Owning your sensuality is _very_ feminist, thank you," she says, "Besides, it's my duty as a woman to exploit the stupidity of men."

Ed helps her check her breath, then she's strutting forward, tongue already dripping with flattery. She'd get them both backstage with ease. They'd finally get to meet four of their musical idols.

"Oh, piss off" she hears Ed below, "You're practically stalking her at this point."

She turns on her heel to find Matt, still in his work threads, bedraggled as though he'd raced to the venue on foot. She'd only mentioned her plans to him in passing, when he'd called on her the other night. He'd seemed anxious to discuss something, constantly trying to corner her into talk about the _future_. She'd ignored him. It was out of pocket. They were still working things out, hardly in a place to be thinking forward.

But _fuck_ , she was still _lonely_. Still ached for _love_ , for _intimacy_. There was only so much she could draw from Ed's companionship. Sometimes she wondered whether she'd cave to the first commitment presented to her.

"What do you want?" she barks, infuriated by the interruption.

"Look, I know I should stop showing up like this" Matt pants

"You don't, clearly, so spit it out."

"She was just about to get us in with the band" Ed scowls. The plan wasn't unique. Others now circled the stage door, all fluttering eyelashes and flirtatious remarks. He considered trying his luck and swaggering over to the guards until he remembered how some still treated people like him. A black eye wasn't worth it.

Suddenly, Matt's dropping to his knees. "I know we're going through a rough patch at the moment". Erica rolls her eyes. It was typical of him to minimize their problems in such a way. She hadn't even settled on taking him back yet. "But I can't stop myself from doing this-"

He pulls a small velvet box from his jacket pocket and holds it up. "Marry me?"

Ed watches as the guards at the stage door let two girls inside. It takes him several moments to register the proposal unfolding before him. He slaps his forehead hard. He'd have kicked the ring straight into the gutter if it was him on the receiving end. "He's a cunt, Erica" he attempts, "You'll find someone better. You watch."

 _I know_ , Erica thinks. She casts a wistful glance to the tour bus. The rosy glow the concert had left her with dims a little. She clings onto those blissful images of the bassist bopping about merrily. Moments like that were fun, a much-needed escape, but they were temporary.

She wanted a better career, a better relationship. She could try to speak those things into existence until she was blue in the face, but how realistic were her chances of achieving both of them? It all seemed too distant. Too difficult.

Loneliness bites at her, bests her better judgment, her ambition, just long enough for her to say the wrong thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of sympathy for Erica. I've been that lonely before. I'm glad I've found the love of my life now, just like she did.
> 
> Sorry for the absence! I've been pretty sick lately :-( My poor bf's had to put up with a lot!
> 
> Finally found someone who reminds me of Erica! A model called Imaan Hammam :-) She's of Egyptian descent too and VERY gorgeous. I think Erica would particularly like the little black dress number  
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRR27cSuCbw


	9. We'll Always Have Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Roger and Ed go on their Honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set early 1991. Not really a plot. Just a lot of fluff, intimacy, and silliness :-)

Ed breathes in deeply, eyelids drooping shut. "Ah, _Paris_ " he breathes, "Just _smell_ it."

Roger scrunches his nose up, desperate to catch a whiff of the radiant perfume his blushing groom basked in. He frowns. "All I can smell is that river". He peers from the sidewalk into the depths of the Seine. The water was considerably clearer than the Thames. He could imagine the tourist boats bobbing along in better weather, the children who might sneakily try to dip their toes in during the summer months.

"It smells like _love_ " Ed croons. He links arms with the drummer, not caring who watched on. Cheeks delightfully rosy, he struggles to take it all in. _Paris in Winter_. Just like something from an oil painting. The city deserved its reputation as a hotspot for lovers. He'd never been anywhere more romantic.

Roger was similarly taken, though not to such a poetic level. "You're _sniggering_ at me," Ed notices. Being caught only makes his husband want to laugh more. "Here I am, trying to be _cute_ -"

Roger pulls the man's woolen hat back over his ears and kisses the tip of his nose. "You never need to _try_ being cute" he corrects, "It comes naturally to you."

Ed blushes, green eyes sparkling with mirth. He rests his head on his partner's shoulder, warmth spreading through him. "That's more like it."

* * *

"Where are the chicken nuggets?"

The Taylors' waiter doesn't find Ed's joke at all funny. At the couple's table, he stands, hands neatly folded behind his back, countenance one of a man who desperately wished to be absolutely anywhere else. Roger rolls his eyes. It was deserving of a slight chuckle at least.

The more he studied the menu, the more he wished there was such an option. His French was poor, though he'd been able to decipher much of what he read anyway. Every dish just seemed so ridiculously complex. _Sophisticated_. A far cry from his preferred fish and chips back in London.

"You're more used to rich things than I am" Ed whispers, fearful of provoking the waiter again, "What do you think?"

Roger scratches his stubble. "The salmon sounds good."

Ed smacks his lips hungrily. As snooty as the place was, it did smell good. The surrounding customers seemed happy enough, too. The restaurant had a nice vibe. Candles adorned every table. The faint pluckings of a string quartet floated through the air. It was the definition of cultured, just not Ed's natural habitat.

He folds his menu and returns it to the waiter. "I'll have three of the cheeseboards". He's met with a disapproving stare. "I love cheese, alright?" Besides, it was the safest option he could find. 

Roger opts for one of the seafood dishes. He attempts the proper French pronunciation but butchers it slightly.

"I can recommend a fantastic wine to go with that, monsieur" the waiter suggests, eager to claw back some dignity.

The drummer looks to his husband nervously. He enjoyed a nice glass of red, but he still wasn't sure about enjoying such things around Ed. An unsure smile is trained his way. "Treat yourself" the younger man urges, if a little flatly.

"Actually, I'll just have a virgin cocktail" Roger decides. Ed's expression brightens by several shades. He doesn't prod or pry, doesn't make a show of reaffirming his support for the man's sobriety. Just knowing he'd helped him feel more comfortable was enough.

Trust passes wordlessly between them, and it's perfect.

Ed barely hears the waiter for all the harp strings singing in his head, that newlywed glow securely set around him. "Hmm? Oh. I'll have some lemonade". He twirls an imaginary mustache. "Your best vintage."

* * *

The water is warm and the bubbles are plenty. Red candles circle the considerable width of the bathtub. Another necessary indulgence, the newlyweds claimed. When in Paris on Honeymoon, a ridiculously decadent hotel room was essential. They'd spent a considerable amount of time tucked away in it. While they enjoyed sight-seeing, they'd made a habit of emerging in the afternoon, when they were certain they could keep their hands off one another.

Perhaps that was what was so delightful about it. They had their own little sweet on the top floor, out of earshot and out of thought, and many miles from home. Their own little escape. It was freeing, having so much quality time just as a pair.

"What shall we do tomorrow?" Ed yawns, flicking a clump of bubbles at his husband.

Roger blinks back the drowsiness. "I dunno" he sighs, "Lourve? People always go there."

"I'm not that bothered about art."

"The Notre-Dame?"

"It's a religious building. I might spontaneously burst into flames if I set foot in it."

Roger toys with the little flame dancing on one of the candles. Just flirts around the wick, never lingering long enough to burn himself, orange glow leaving pleasant hotness on the pads of his fingers. "We might as well do things while we're here". Lord knew what stresses awaited them in London. 1991 had started pretty well so far, with their commitment to one another, and the launch of _Innuendo_. Roger understood his luck wasn't limitless. They had to make the most of their bliss.

Ed scoots over to the other side of the tub, contemplating a smirk. "We've been doing _lots_ of things" he plays kittenishly. Roger laughs at that. He goes fix his partner's newly blonde hair, only to thread bubbles through it. "That's what honeymoons are for" he winks.

The new Mr. Taylor checks his wedding ring over once more. It's being there was mindblowing to him. It didn't matter that the bond couldn't be recognized legally. He'd finally settled down. Finally found the love he'd been desperate for. He didn't doubt Roger anymore. They were in it together forevermore and it was golden.

Beneath the foam, he places his hand on the other man's thigh. "However did you get so lucky?" he chaffs.

"Cheeky sod."

Roger picks one of the candles up and pretends to tip it up. A drop of wax accidentally spills from the rim and hits Ed's shoulder. "Shit. Probably shouldn't be playing with these."

Ed had barely flinched. He considers the drying wax stuck to his skin. "Felt quite nice actually," he says, "Painful but nice."

Roger quirks a brow. "Didn't realize you were into that sort of thing". He hesitates in setting the candle back in place. His imagination was skipping away happily, drunk on ideas about what else his husband might like. What fantasies they could indulge in this little safe space of theirs. An intense gleam spreads through him, blood migrating southward with remarkable speed. He shifts his leg so Ed's touch can drift a little higher.

"All that childhood trauma of mine has to work its way out somehow" the other blonde jokes. He takes the candle back. Roger winces when a dot of molten wax drips onto his chest. The stuff quickly solidifies and the pain vanishes, replaced by a pleasant tingling. He smiles to himself. "There's something quite relaxing about that, actually". He invites Ed to do it again, and again, until he's painting intricate patterns along his breast.

It was a deliciously romantic moment. Calming and exhilarating all at once.

The bath plug is eventually pulled, and the candles are blown out. Sensuality lingers in the air. The dark winter night shut away behind heavy curtains, the two lovers fall into bed together.

Pulling Roger's weight onto him, arms wrapped around his neck, Ed covers the marks the wax had left with kisses. He lingers over a particularly sensitive spot of the drummer's, just above his collarbone. He grazes his teeth against the skin there, sucking gently. He wanted to shower his husband with love bites. Let the other tourists know who he belonged to. "I can't believe you're all mine now" he purrs, moving up to his neck.

Roger releases a heavy breath. He peels away Ed's bathrobe. He takes his time in looking over his naked body, like a man studying a fine sculpture. He was still damp from the bath, candy-sweet, and glistening. He wasn't sure where to start. He pulls the cotton tie from the loops of the robe and eases his beloved's arms over his head.

He checks his comfortable on the mattress then begins to slowly bind his wrists together. Ed submits willingly. He couldn't tell which feeling was stronger; knowing Roger found him utterly gorgeous, or the rock-hard straining of his erection. "I _say_ , Mr. Taylor" he croons, relaxing into his restraints, "This is awfully cheeky."

Eyes narrowed coyly, Roger slips his fingers into the man's mouth. "Call me that again."

* * *

A number of Parisian cliches already satisfied, Roger sets a picnic hamper down on a neat, green lawn. Ed throws a tartan blanket into the air and lets it settle on the grass. Less than gracefully, he throws himself onto it, and immediately sets about digging through the food. He retrieves a tray of fresh strawberries and places one between his lips.

"Get a photo" he calls, posing demurely.

Roger pulls his camera out and captures his muse. "You look like a model."

Though it didn't seem possible, he'd fallen a little more in love with the man as they met in the lobby. Whereas he'd dressed rather casually, Ed had gone all out. Immune to the narrowminded sneering of those around him, Ed had practically floated down the stairs in a black midi skirt. "I stole it from Erica. Don't say a word" he'd confessed. High boots with a low heel hugged his legs. He'd thrown a leather jacket over his own Human League t-shirt. "God, I just feel stunning this morning."

Roger didn't think the choice was as controversial as people made it out to be. Ed looked stunning. He and his peers had worn all sorts during the seventies. Why did people get so uptight over clothes?

He insists Ed pose for a few more snaps. He wanted to immortalize the look.

"Get one of me pretending to touch the Eiffel Tower!"

The two men try to get themselves in the right position. "Forward a bit" Roger directs, peering through the viewfinder. Ed shuffles forward, hand already stretched out as though leaning on the great sculpture.

"You're too close now. The shot won't work."

"I'll back up a bit then."

"Not that far. You've ruined the illusion."

"No need to be snappy."

"Stop being such a bimbo then."

Ed fires him the middle finger.

Roger takes a photo of that instead.

* * *

"Leave the skirt on."

The drummer fumbles in trying to remove the rest of his husband's clothing. His hands failed to get a solid grip on anything, the fire pumping through his veins throwing him off. Ed yanks his shirt over his head. "Alright, but don't make a mess of it. This isn't mine, remember?"

"I'm sure it's seen worse."

He bites back his other Deacon-related jokes, distracted by the brute force with which his pants are pulled to his ankles. His chest tightens as Ed drops to his knees before him, eyes already threatening to roll to the back of his skull. He shuts them and embraces the sensation. His underwear being peeled away. Those tentative first strokes along his dick, slowly increasing with their surety. Lips slick with saliva molding around him.

Ed hums about him, sending vibrations through every nerve. He swirls his tongue about the tip then withdraws with a pop. "You sure you're comfortable standing there?" he asks, water pricking the corners of his eyes, a beautiful sight. "You look as though you're about to keel over."

"I can assure you I'm more than fine" Roger gulps.

He groans as he slides back into his mouth. He curses under his breath and with beady eyes watches Ed's head bob rhythmically. Again the younger man purrs. " _Shit_ " the drummer grunts. He softly gathers a handful of blonde hair and guides him in his movements, encouraging his partner to take all of him. The gulps, the gags, the whole pornographic symphony of it all. The sounds drift into the air like the sweetest notes.

Stars begin to burst around him and Roger can feel himself sprinting for the finish line. He pulls Ed back up to his feet and crashes his lips to his. He didn't trust himself to not instantly pass out the moment he finished, and he'd feel selfish if he didn't love his husband properly.

Catching Ed's bottom lip between his teeth, he slips a hand beneath his skirt. He palms him through his briefs, gradually pushing forward until they hit the edge of the bed. Dramatically Ed falls onto the mattress, expression one of pure bliss, as though he could hear an entire orchestra swelling in his head. Fluidly, Roger slips his underwear off. He leaves a trail of open kisses along his leg then settles between his thighs.

Fingers massaging his taint, he leans down to press his mouth to his ass. Ed sighs airily, spurring him on. He darts his tongue in, reveling in the taste of him. He increases his tempo gradually, happy to be lost beneath his lover's skirts. He reaches up to thread his spare hand with Ed's when he feels the man start to buck under him, the pleasure intense.

"Need you inside me, Rog" Ed pants.

The mere thought sends the drummer into an ecstatic spin. He tears his bottle of lube from the nightstand and applies it generously.

He's a little less elegant with the rest, though Ed doesn't mind. He asks for it. Cusses and begs for it. He lifts his legs onto the other man's shoulders, urging him to fuck him deeper and deeper still, one hand stroking his cock, the other braced against Roger's chest. "Oh, _fuck_ " he growls, his lover hitting his g-spot so immaculately he felt like weeping.

"You're so beautiful, Ed" Roger gasps, sweat gluing his hair to his forehead. He gazes down at him lovingly, knowing he wouldn't last long while those pretty green eyes were focused on him.

Ed felt incredible. Empowered. Cherished. Gorgeous. Everything he'd missed out on for so many years. Though his demons still visited him from time to time, their spiteful mutterings barely touched him during moments like these. Roger made him feel safe, _loved_.

Bliss his blanket, Ed feels his back arch off the bed. "Fuck, I'm going to-" Suddenly, he cries out.

Roger sees him spill into his own hand and knows he's done for. Ed recognizes the look on his face. "On me, Rog" he pleads, bracing himself.

Roger tries to aim for his face, but his desire gets the better of him. He comes just as he pulls out, a guttural grunt choking out from him. Chest heaving, he staggers back, almost colliding with the cabinet behind him. "Oh shit-"

Thoroughly satisfied, Ed sits up. He glances at the space between his thighs, notices the mess pooling there.

"You know, I don't think Erica's going to want this skirt back."

* * *

Ed watches as a metal lock is pressed into his palm. "Is the one from the shed back home?"

Roger laughs. "You're supposed to lock it around the railings."

"Gosh, I didn't notice."

He gestures to the railings of the bridge. Every inch was covered in locks, some small, some large. He'd witnessed a number of loved-up couples find a place for theirs before tossing the key into the Seine.

He manages to find a gap for his and Roger's. There's a satisfying click as it fastens in place. Though there were a thousand just like it, the Taylors knew they'd always be able to tell which was theirs.

Hand in hand with his husband, Roger throws the key into the river. He'd heard the authorities were cracking down on the tradition, but he didn't care. He wanted to commemorate his new marriage, destined to be life-long, in any way he could.

"I think 1991's going to be really good for us, you know" he breathes, pulling the younger man close.

Ed rests his head on his shoulder, the seasonal chill not so bitter with such a person beside him. "Don't say that like it's guaranteed" he says, "I'm done promising myself that things will always be perfect."

"We're happy right now. And that's good enough for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Paris is a very stereotypical location, but my bf and I were supposed to be traveling there this year. Thanks Miss Rona! :-(
> 
> Rog and Ed chapters are my favorite to write. It was really lovely to do this one 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Grey Hairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, John finds a way to feel better about his age.
> 
> Set early 1990s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another non-angsty, silly, smutty bit of fun that popped into my head. A lot of this is from John's perspective, which was fun to write!
> 
> This is the Deaky I'm thinking of: pinterest.com/pin/833306737286843564/?d=t&mt=login

The forgotten table in the corner of the garage had come into its own despite its dilapidated state. Though it squeaked and trembled, it remained upright. Erica barely notices the way it wobbles. Pays little attention to the greasy tools and stray bolts that roll off the top. The smell of flaking polish floods her nostrils as her nose is smushed against the wood.

Manically she grins, intoxicated on the chorus of grunts and moans sounding out behind her. She didn't care that the garage door was still open, that any passing neighbor might get an eyeful as they walked by. She was being thoroughly railed and it was gorgeous.

"Erica."

"Oh, _daddy_ -"

"Erica?"

Erica returns to reality and finds John blinking at her innocently. He's still where he was before, leaned over the open hood of her car. "Hmm?" she mumbles, cheeks glowing furiously.

"I said do you want me to check the gas while I'm here?" her husband speaks, bemused. She just nods, worried about what else might slip out. She wasn't sure what had brought the episode on. She'd just been watching him make repairs, chatting idly.

He'd been thrilled when she brought the vehicle to him instead of a local mechanic. He'd always enjoyed fiddling with cars. He was good at it, skillful. Quite casually he'd accessed the engine, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Perhaps that was where Erica had started to fall apart. Those damn arms of his. The silver hairs there. The way his veins pulsed and stood out when he worked the wrench. The oil smeared across those nimble fingers of his.

She shakes her head, the little devil within her threatening to steal her away again.

"Are you winning?" she asks, voice uneven. She clears her throat so as not to give away how flustered she was.

John props himself up the car, a proud grin slapped across his aging features. "Should run smoothly now" he declares, patting the left headlight, "Though there's some other stuff I wouldn't mind doing."

"So long as you don't paint hot rod flames across it, do what you like."

He brightens up even more. It was adorable, his interest. "Thanks, love" he chirps, eager to return to work.

Not wanting to soil his enjoyment with her sordid imaginings, Erica decides on a soothing cup of tea. She fans herself as she walks, her knees still a little unsure, certain her husband isn't watching.

"I hope you enjoyed whatever it was you were daydreaming about" he calls out.

The woman spins in her slippers. "Daydreaming? Don't know what you mean."

John fixes her with a smirk. He wipes the oil from his hands with an old rag, body language decidedly cocksure. "I think you do, _mommy_."

Erica gives him an embarrassed smile and bolts indoors. She practically melts into the striped rug in the hallway. He'd heard her. Knew exactly what she'd been thinking about. And he'd looked so cool, so collected. She groans into the floorboards. Ever since the grey had started to overtake the brown in his hair, she'd been utterly defenseless against his charms.

There was embracing his rapidly maturing features, then there was _this_.

She's vaguely aware of one of the children stepping over her, and a cereal hitting her cheek. "Whoops" John's eldest daughter splutters, reasserting her grip on her Fraggle Rock bowl, "Sorry, Erica."

The girl thinks first to return to her cartoons in the sitting room before realizing her step-mother might be in need of help. "Why are you on the floor?" she poses kindly, "Do you need anything?"

Erica tries to regain her composure but ends up just giving her the thumbs up instead. "I'm fine, sweetheart" she sighs, "Just leave me here."

* * *

"Oh, shit."

Another spillage in the Deacon household, only it wasn't one of the kids throwing jelly at one another this time. John had knocked his coffee over. He curses himself rather more harshly than necessary for it. "Stupid old git" he mutters, jumping up from his armchair.

He surveys the room, searching for something to mop the drink up with. He seizes the magazine draped over the loveseat opposite and rips the first two pages from the staples, scrunching them in his fist. He's doing a good job of dabbing his poor coffee up when he notices who graces the third page.

 _Erica_. One of those paparazzo shots taken as she'd left her favorite club several nights before. She looked stunning, as she always did; bewitching in the glittering ruby-red mini dress she wore.

When Ed had visited earlier, the bassist had overheard him cackling over how ' _ludicrously fucking big_ ' her pupils seemed in the photo. "I didn't think _those_ sorts of substances were included with bottle service" he'd quipped.

"It's just the lighting" she'd excused.

It didn't trouble John. Something else did. Just below the picture was a slightly smaller one of him, presumably taken as he left the studio one day. His age was included in the caption, as well as the fact that his wife was eleven years younger.

She looked so young, so flawless. Healthy. Curvy. A successful woman in her prime.

And he looked _old_.

He leaves his spilled coffee to drip and approaches the mirror overhanging the mantel. Time wasn't being kind to him, he feared. Wrinkles ran like rivers across his face. His skin was no longer even. His nose looked longer, more pronounced. He looks downward and presses his sweater to his stomach. He was convinced his middle was spreading.

Twenty years ago, he'd been wearing open silk shirts that exposed all but his bellybutton. God, and the skin-tight pants he used to strut about it. He'd felt good when he was young. Attractive.

Maybe he was being dramatic? He still kept active. And he could hardly expect to cling to the drop-dead gorgeousness of his twenties now he was in his forties, could he?

He looks to the photo of Erica again- lovely, youthful Erica - then back at his reflection. He runs a hand through his curls, by now a solid silver. What if he dyed it? He snorts to himself. No, that would look ridiculous. What then? He couldn't believe she might still fancy him looking like the battered middle-aged soul that he was.

He busies himself with his overturned coffee before he can grow too miserable.

* * *

Erica regretted tidying up before the children got home. The kitchen had turned into an especially chaotic art workshop the minute dinner was over. One of the older children had been tasked with making things for a school project. None of the others wanted to be left out. Now she had a floor covered in googly eyes and glitter.

"What do you think?" one of the boys asks cheerfully, holding his creation up for his step-mother to judge.

"That's a brilliant turtle, Michael" she compliments.

"It's an elephant!"

She's then informed matter of factly that what looked like a shell was in fact one giant ear and that elephants would be much cooler if they were green.

Erica's own craftings weren't as inspired. She'd retrieved a toilet roll tube from the trash and turned it into a puppet. Scraps of felt left over from the parrot Robert sewed had been used to create a dress. Three lonely lengths of string sufficed as hair. The puppet had been treated to several fuzzy stick arms until little George tried to chew them. The poor thing was now limbless, its sequin smile somehow bordering on a grimace.

"Hey, guys!"

The considerable Deacon brood rushes from their seats to greet their father. Confined to her highchair, George simply waves her pacifier at him. Ignoring the slightly odd greeting, Erica turns to face her husband.

"Welcome home, Habibi-" She does a double-take. "What _have_ you got on?"

John twirls on the spot, sporting his best supermodel-like pout. The children giggle. They swarm about him, fascinated by their father's impromptu style change. The baggy basketball sweater he'd acquired wasn't exactly controversial. Erica already had her heart set on stealing it for naps. It was the pants that alarmed her; baggy and offensively bright, the fabric patterned with strange neon shapes and squiggles.

"It's _cool_ " he insists.

"Of course, sweetie" his wife affirms, burying her laughter into her blouse.

John contributed something else to his new image. It's quickly claimed by his eldest daughter. "Dad, this is amazing!" she squeals, "Can we put it on?"

A _New Kids on the Block_ compilation. It's inserted into the stereo before anyone can object. Some grumble, dismissing the music as 'silly', while others begin to dance. John's among them, throwing up bizarre movements. Erica notices his lips moving, as though he's pretending to lipsync along to the words. "I had no idea you were such a fan" she observes through narrowed eyes.

"They're _hip_ , aren't they?" John appeals.

Erica can't help but grin. "You're welcome to listen to New Kids on the Block," she says, "But if you ever describe something as _hip_ again, I'm leaving you."

* * *

John tosses his new pants into the laundry bin. He'd aimed first for the trash can, but he didn't want Erica to know he'd already conceded defeat. The longer he stares at them, the more he feels as though he needs another shower. His cringe-worthy display earlier in the day hadn't quite washed off yet.

Another long look at his reflection, that damn stupid boyband playing still in the next room, had sobered him up. He looked ridiculous. An obviously middle-aged man trying in vain to appear youthful. He slaps himself on the forehead. He felt no better about his age and he now had the embarrassment of trying to act otherwise.

Drawing a heavy sigh, John checks his bathrobe covers as much of him as possible. He loosens the ties so the flimsy material didn't cling too closely to his stomach. Like a burglar from an old cartoon, he creeps into the bedroom, praying silently that his beloved was already asleep.

 _Fuck_. Of course, she wasn't. She was still combing her hair in front of the mirror, her bonnet and a little bottle of overnight cream waiting on the dresser beside her. A flirty little nightdress clings to her figure, cut just above the knee. Make-up off, that sweet sleepy look in her eye. She was leagues ahead of him, surely?

John goes about his own pre-bed rituals discreetly. He gives vague answers to the things she says, though monitors her closely to check she wasn't about to turn around. He'd begun a strange dance, hopping from foot to foot, keen on getting his pajamas pulled on while still wearing his bathrobe.

"Why are you wiggling like that?" Erica poses, catching him suddenly.

John almost topples over, his foot caught in the leg of his cotton pants. " _Nothing_ " he blurts.

"Do you need help, Habibi?"

" _I'm not old_."

The woman frowns. He'd been behaving oddly all day. "I didn't say you were, John". She sets her comb down so she can give him her undivided attention. "What's this about?"

The bassist exhales wearily and sinks onto the edge of the bed. "I didn't want you to see me". He gestures to his body. "Like, _see_ me". The look she gives him almost makes him melt into the covers.

"I like looking at you," she avers, "I think you're beautiful."

Her sincerity quells his anxiety just a little. "But I'm _grey_. And _wrinkly_." 

"You're in your forties. You're allowed a couple of wrinkles" Erica argues, perching beside him, "As for _grey hairs_ , I think it suits you". She reaches up to stroke his hair, admiring the beautiful silver threaded through it. His curls were soft against her skin, like fine silk. She could spend several hours running her fingers through them.

The hormonal turn she'd suffered when he'd repaired her car revisits her and she tactfully withdraws. He needed comfort, not a horny woman jumping his bones. Then again, the two were hardly mutually exclusive, were they?

"You're very handsome, baby" she assures him, "And never more so than now."

John manages a warm smile. "Really?"

Erica kisses his cheek. " _Really_."

She jumps up to resume her pampering, a few knots stray knots in need of seeing to. She busies herself at the mirror once more, though there's a distinct heat under her skin now. She could feel her husband staring at her. She tries to stay focused on her routine, and not thoughts of where he might be staring. She pops her hip, letting her ass perk up in an inch or two, just in case.

"Honestly, Habibi, I love it. You look so _mature_ and _sexy_ " she rallies, restraint slipping away as it always did, "It does things to me. I think I'd probably do anything you asked me."

"Is that right?"

Something comes over John. The sensation is foreign, absent for too long. He actually felt _attractive_. Desired on a soulful level. There was no hollowness in her words. How could he ever have doubted her? She wanted him. Would do anything for him. _Anything_.

"Come here."

Erica peers at him over her shoulder. "Pardon?"

" _Come here_."

She neglects her bonnet. She'd been issued an instruction and she meant to follow it. The burning glare he fixes on her forces her into silence. Restlessly she shuffles towards him. "Take your nightdress off" she's told. She almost forgets how to undress. A mess is made of the straps, but she manages to slide them off her shoulders. Then she lets it drop and pool at her ankles. Instinct tells her to cover her breasts with her arms but she shuns the notion. She felt safe, admired. 

Slowly John draws her into his lap, firm grip settling about her thigh. "I think you're very beautiful too" he whispers, burying his hand into her hair. He pulls her to him greedily. Erica hums against him, every press of his lips and swipe of his tongue sending waves of electricity straight to her cunt. She feels him press into her, urging her to grind down against his hips.

She whimpers. He was wickedly turned-on. The transformation was exhilarating. The confidence he showed her was miraculous. She loved it. Adored him for overcoming his insecurities so audaciously. She'd meant it when she'd said she'd do anything he asked her. Whatever made him feel good about himself, she'd give.

"Oh, Habibi" she utters, grating against his lap, relishing the pressure his erection placed at her clit. She inadvertently speeds up, burying her cheek against those heavenly grey hairs of his.

John smacks her ass, a warning for her to take her time. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer _daddy_?" he asks cheekily.

" _Don't_ " Erica groans, "Or I'll come right here and now."

"You're welcome to."

Her giggles catch in her throat, replaced by a sigh as her husband begins to trail kisses along her breasts. "Really though, I don't think I'm ready for _that_ word yet" she gasps.

John cups her face, looks in her in the eye, smiles sweetly, as though he wasn't driving her wild. "Whatever you like, mommy."

Erica snorts indelicately. "And now I might pee myself laughing."

The bassist titters pleasantly before pulling her back to his lips. Assertively he flips her onto her back. He hovers over her, a knee shoved between her legs, and dives on the first sweat-slick area of skin he spots. He feels her tremble beneath him as he leisurely trails the tip of his tongue over her nipples, notices her ball the sheets up into her fists the lower he travels. He's ready to dive to her sex and make her call his name when she pushes him.

Erica couldn't help herself. Being a brat came naturally. Confidently she straddles him, batting away the controlling hands he tries to dominate her with. A provocative glint in her eye, she runs open-mouthed kisses over his chest, then his stomach. She'd noticed him trying to suck it in, conceal it lately, and wanted to make him feel good. "You're so good to me, baby" she murmurs, "So stunning."

" _Erica_ -" John breathes.

She smirks. "What do you want, Habibi? Tell me" Perhaps she might end up telling _him_ what to do.

Another flip. A new position. This time he's pressed against her from behind, his full weight pinning her to the spot. "I want you to do as you're told" he hisses. He slips one finger into her pussy, and another into her ass, and pumps delicately. She tenses around his digits, moaning the more he moved them.

All those pretty sounds, and all for him. Going slow didn't seem like such an appealing idea anymore. He was desperate for her, finally at the peak of his self-belief. He pulls away and slaps her behind again. "Do we need a-"

"Pill" Erica gasps, undone at the very thought.

"Have you actually taken it today?" John mocks, "I know what you're like."

"Oh, just fuck me already."

Squeezing the back of her neck securely, he shoves his cock deep. He bottoms out too quickly, unadulterated excitement stealing some of the intimacy from the embrace. He finds an uneven pace. Lets himself enjoy every conceivable inch of her with hard strokes, then lets her get her breath back with calmer hits.

Erica bites down on her fist. John offers her his fingers to suck on when he realizes she's trying not to scream. "No, no, keep holding me there" she pleads, feeling him move away from her neck. She yelps inadvertently, that same hand having found its way to her clit. "Be a good girl now, come on" he scolds.

She does as she's ordered. Sits up so he can reach around to her front and palm her tits when he tells her to. Whispers his name when he tells her to. Touches herself when he tells her to. The pleasure is searing. A familiar intensity begins to eat away at her middle. She didn't want to finish while he was taking like this, as heavenly as it was. She wanted to see him. Behold his handsome features as she came.

"Need to see you, Habibi" she chokes.

John indulges her. He wanted to see her too. Observe the way the delicate carvings of her face contorted with glee. He eases her onto her back and slips an extra pillow behind her head. Pressing flush against her, blunt nails digging into the supple brown flesh of her thighs, he resumes his thrusts. She looked at him with such love, such devotion. She held him with such esteem. Doted on him, wrinkles and all.

"Oh, _fuck_ " she exhales, " _John"_. Her back begins to arch, swollen lips forming a distinct 'o' shape.

It finishes him. He comes with a crash, feeling more attractive than he ever had.

Next thing he knows, he's being woken from a peaceful nap. He's back in his pajamas, and he can tell by the freshness of his skin that he'd been cleaned up while he was passed out. Erica cradles him in her arms, herself half-asleep.

He thinks on how his evening had turned out and smiles wearily. He thinks up a sarcastic comment but it releases in little but a mumble. "You do still fancy me then."

Erica mutters in the positive and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I'll show you again in the morning if you'd like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got VERY carried away here. Apologies.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading :-) I'm going to take a very long shower now


	11. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, two different nights out in London.
> 
> Set in 1985, just after the gang has returned from Munich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long absence!
> 
> I've been in the process of moving so I've been pretty stressed out of my mind.
> 
> The result of the election is a relief though! My district voted red (BOO) but thankfully the rest of the country knew better. I think I might have gone back to Canada if Trump had been re-elected!
> 
> I hope you're all well and staying safe <3

Ed watches a slice of cheese run down Tom Selleck's face. It sticks a little as it reaches his mustache, leaving a mark that would almost certainly earn him a lecturing from Erica. She'd already given him a slap on the wrist for throwing things at the TV screen during soccer games. Apparently, a habit had developed. It wasn't as though there was anything else to do.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and there he was: camping on his best mate's sofa, covered in chip dust and burger remnants, watching _Magnum P.I_.

Lately, everyone had been congratulating Ed. He and Erica had returned from Germany to find themselves promoted. _Top of the Pops_ was their new gig. Even his mother had something positive to say. ' _You're actually getting somewhere_ ' she'd said, ' _well done_ '. How she hadn't choked on those particular words, Ed wasn't sure. He hated how eagerly he lapped the sentiment up. He thought he was past accepting the bare fucking minimum from her.

Depression hovering on his peripheral, he decides to throw something else at the television set. He seizes the telephone from the table beside him, only for it to ring just as he's about to launch it.

"If this isn't Erica's dealer, I'm not interested" Ed mumbles.

"You sound cheerful" Roger teases.

The younger man hastily brushes the crumbs from his person and sits up. "That's me. A ray of sunshine."

"You're at Erica's pretty early" the drummer notes.

Ed sighs. "I'm crashing here until I get a place of my own" he admits, "Craig kicked me out, remember?"

Silence follows from the other end, an inadvertent admission of guilt. " _Ah_ " Roger utters, perfectly aware that he'd had a part in the couple's breakup. He changes the subject before either of them can grow too gloomy. "How is it? Living with Erica?"

Ed leans over to switch the TV off, only to be reminded why he'd turned it on in the first place. He holds the telephone receiver into the air so Roger could overhear the commotion. Ridiculous giggling could be heard coming from the adjacent room. Every now and then there'd be a squeal or airy sigh. Ed's sure he hears Roger gag over the line.

"They sound happy," he says.

" _Yeah_ " Ed grumbles.

"Jealous, Tetley?"

"Of all the shagging? Yeah, I am as it goes" he concedes, "I prefer it when I'm the one making people jealous."

"You don't say."

Ed assures himself that he'd imagined the husky tone that had overcome the musician's voice. He'd definitely invented the image that now played in his head, of Roger toying with his bottom lip as he spoke.

"Look, can you pass something onto John? I need to know if he's going to this stupid record company party tonight."

In a daze, the red-head wonders over to his new roommate's bedroom door, dragging the phone cord in his wake. He turns the handle without thinking. The scene within doesn't shock him. All he can think to do is roll his eyes.

John looks very pleased with himself, cute and cozy in striped pajamas and reddened cheeks. Erica sits in his lap, whispering some mischief or other in her new lover's ear. The bassist starts when he realizes they're being watched. He hands the woman a pillow, willing her to cover her chest with it.

Erica ignores it. Casually she regards Ed, a grin plastered across her face. "Come to join in?" she jokes.

"Don't tempt me. Roger wants to know if you're going to the party tonight."

"Not my sort of thing" John stutters, the interruption drawing out his natural shyness.

Ed mutters the answer to Roger over the phone then moves to make his exit. He hesitates when he spots the unopened pack of smokes resting on Erica's bedside table. Catching the happy couple red-handed had done nothing to ease his heartache so he was eager for a distraction. "Oi, can I bum a cig?"

"Sure". Erica leans over and throws the carton to him, perplexing John all the more. He was embarrassed about being caught in his old pajamas unawares. She was, to say, _baring all_ and didn't seem bothered in the slightest. She dismisses his confusion with a giggle. "He's walked in on worse" she argues, "We shared an apartment at university, remember?"

John nods blankly. "Well, you're certainly, er, _close_ , aren't you?" He's reminded of Roger and Fred. Neither of them was phased by uncomfortable situations. They'd encountered each other knee-deep in all kinds of mischief over the years and almost always stopped to share a joke.

Evidently, Erica adopted a similar policy. "Why shouldn't we be close? He's my best mate."

"Of course" John tries, "Totally normal."

The sentiment ringing hollow, Erica rolls off his lap and onto the empty side of the bed. " _Please_ " she scoffs, "We're not exactly normal either."

"You whisked me away to Bali for two weeks but you haven't even taken me on a _proper date_ yet."

From the corner of his eye, the man catches her bat her lashes. He looks to her to find her grinning again. He grins back, dazed and besotted. "Would you like to go on a date with me?"

"I don't like you that in that way, sorry."

In the other room, Ed overhears shrill squealing, as though someone was being tickled. He misses companionship all the more.

Roger thought along similar lines. He'd already sworn a friend he'd attend that dreaded record company party but he didn't like the idea of turning up alone. Dominique had washed her hands of him, so she wasn't an option anymore. He could ask one of his usual side pieces along, but he barely knew any of them. He wanted decent conversation more than he did easy sex.

Ed was good company. Funny, sociable.

"What are you up to tonight?" he queries.

"Moping, most likely" Ed whinges.

"Why not come out with me?" the drummer chances.

Like a nervous schoolgirl, Ed toys with his hair. He's glad the older man can't see him. Given the heat radiating off him, he must be the color of beet by now. "Wouldn't you rather go with someone _gorgeous_ " he jeers, head flooded with images of glamorous models and buxom groupies. They were always _blonde_. He lets go of the curl he'd twirled about his finger, suddenly reminded that he was in fact _ginger_.

"Why do you think I'm asking you?" Roger charms.

Basted lightly in honeyed tones, Ed feigns immunity. "I'll hang up if you're going to be cheeky" he retorts, "We're mates. That's it."

Unconvinced silence follows, then a reluctant sigh. "I know, I know. _Mates_."

"Good."

"So, _mate_ , how does an evening of totally platonic fun sound?"

"Absolutely wonderful, _pal_."

* * *

Ed makes last-minute checks in the elevator mirror. His makeup was left undisturbed despite the bumpy subway ride over. He runs his fingers through his mullet to restore some of the volume the wind had knocked out of it. In the mirror's reflection, he catches Roger studying him over the rim of his sunglasses. He was inclined to lecture the man. Then again, who could blame him? He _did_ look good.

"I'm sure I've seen Debbie Harry in that outfit" the drummer comments, a smirk dancing on his lips.

Ed straightens his blazer, blue like the rest of his outfit. "That's what I was going for actually. I saw this look in a magazine. Been dying to give it a go ever since."

"Suits you" Roger nods. The overhead light flickers, taking the dreamy look in his eye with it. Pity. Ed would have liked to enjoy it a little longer. In a friendly way, obviously.

 _Ding_. The elevator doors peel back, revealing a bustling rooftop terrace. The pair are fashionably late. Squads of executives and artists litter the polished tiles. The city's eclectic mix of subcultures were well-represented. Goths occupied one corner, _Spandau Ballet_ -types lingered in another. Smart young men in colorful suits, sleeves always rolled up to the elbows, and floppy hairdos were the obvious majority. _Wham!_ rejects, Ed assessed silently.

A number quickly descend on Roger. The drummer gives polite greetings and noncommittal answers to their questions, as unenthused as most musicians in the face of record company creeps. Ed follows him confidently. Several men wink his way. Some women too, to his amusement. He's whisked away toward the bar before he can engage with any of them.

"What do you fancy?" Roger asks, summoning the barman with a casual flourish of his hand.

"Something cheap. I'd rather not crash on Erica's couch forever" answers Ed, studying the cocktail menu nervously. Munich had drained his bank account rather and the money from his new job hadn't come through yet. His friend beams. "Open bar," he's told. Ed forgets the menu.

"A pina colada, please."

The barman serves the drink up quickly, adorning the glass with slices of pineapple and a pretty pink umbrella. "Very nice" Ed compliments.

"Anything for a Top of the Pops presenter" the barman croons.

"You'll have to make me several more if you want free tickets" he flirts back.

Abruptly, Roger takes the red-head by the arm and pulls him away again. "There are some people I want you to meet" he excuses. Ed plays along, but he doesn't miss the frustration etched on his face.

* * *

Erica cuts an odd figure in the lobby of the hotel. She'd have happily hidden away in the cab she'd arrived in had the driver not booted her out. She'd assumed the address John had given was for convenience. She knew there to be a movie theatre just along the street. The actual location of their date. Not _here_ , surely?

She bunches her scuffed leather jacket around herself to try and conceal the casual red sweater and suspenders she wore. The black pants she wore might have let her get away with it. The heavy black boots didn't. The soles were still caked in mud from when, stoned, she'd dared her friends to race her across a muddy field. The host positioned at the front of the hotel restaurant gives her a thorough looking-over, unimpressed by the marks she'd left all over his precious marble floor. She's sure he'll turn her away until someone beyond the doors gestures to her.

There's an awkward shuffle as John leads her to their table. He fitted in, smart in a navy suit and tie. He's seemingly oblivious to her embarrassment. "You look nice" he compliments, holding his girlfriend's chair out for her, "You look like Siouxsie Sioux."

"Yes, I blend in so well" Erica cracks, perching hesitantly. At least she had a friendly face to focus on, she supposed. John looked especially sweet, stubbled cheeks lit up by the lit candle placed between them. "You look great. Is that suit new?"

John strokes the lapels proudly. "Bought it today," he says, "Wanted to look handsome for you."

"You could turn up in your underwear and I'd still think you were handsome."

The bassist blushes. "I don't think the other diners would agree."

No, it was her they stared at. How long would it be before one of them complained? Erica could see it in their eyes. They weren't just baffled as to why she'd appeared at such an exclusive venue dressed like she was. They were offended. Most of the patrons looked the same, she noted. Middle-aged, white, _stuffy_. The sorts who clutched their purses and walked to the opposite side of the street when they saw her coming. Part of her conceded that even if she'd waltzed to her table head to toe in designer threads, diamonds sparkling around her neck, they'd have tutted at her.

This wasn't her world.

The menu makes that fact all the plainer. The price tags are the worst part. 

"I don't know what half of these dishes actually are" John chuckles.

"I'm surprised you picked this place" Erica murmurs. She takes a moment while she tries to decipher how the _fuck_ a lasagne might cost forty pounds. "I assumed we'd just go see a movie."

"I wanted to impress you" her date chirps, delightful grey eyes glinting hopefully.

 _Bless him_. Restaurants like these weren't exactly his arena either, were they? He didn't look too uncomfortable, though. He'd been as excited as she was for their big date. It didn't seem fair, demanding they go somewhere else.

A slender figure with a white cloth thrown over his arm approaches the table. "Any wine for you, sir?" he oozes, a cartoon sprung to life, "Madam?"

John looks at Erica and smiles. "Wine?"

"Please" she breathes, " _Lots_."

* * *

The barman at the rooftop terrace didn't appear overly concerned with his work. He'd enjoyed two songs with Ed now. The floor bathed in neon light, they'd danced. Touched here and there, tested the waters. It didn't matter that Ed barely knew the man. The loneliness aching within him had finally quietened down. He'd get lucky, the way things were headed, and for one night, just one, he'd be _happy_.

_Once I ran to you_

_Now I'll run from you_

Roger leans against the railings, drink in hand, feigning interest in the conversation he was having with another artist. More often than he liked his focus drifts over to the dancefloor, to the couple relishing those blissful first sparks of attraction, singing along to the Soft Cell song the DJ played.

_This tainted love you've given_

_I give you all a boy could give you_

Something ugly simmers within him. A general sensation of feeling pissed off. Not because he'd invited Ed along to keep him company, but because he was dancing with another man. The assessment doesn't sit right with him. He'd had ample opportunity while the party raged to join his friend on the floor. Ed had even beckoned him over several times, demanding he show what ' _those pretty little feet can do_.'

_Take my tears and that's not nearly all_

Roger had refused. He didn't want to be seen dancing with another man. Didn't want to give unfriendly eyes the wrong impression. ' _Wrong impression'_. The drummer laughs humorlessly to himself. They'd be absolutely right. He adored Ed.

_Tainted love_

_Tainted love_

Bit by bit, the ecstasy he'd experienced during his night with the journalist in Munich slipped away from him. He yearned for another interaction like that one. He wouldn't be a coward next time, either. He wouldn't dismiss it as a mistake the next morning.

_Don't touch me, please_

_I cannot stand the way you tease_

Ed continues to twirl about, blue eyeshadow perfectly framing the come-hither eyes he pointed toward the barman. He catches Roger watching him and winks. Damn him. He's calling him over again now. "Come on!" he shouts, "I know you love this one."

_I love you though you hurt me so_

Roger puts on a smile and shakes his head. "Wouldn't want to interrupt" he shouts back.

_Now I'm gonna pack my things and go_

* * *

"Was that your stomach?"

Erica ignores the question and pulls John back to her. The makeout session he'd initiated beneath the street lamps had been the best bit of her evening so far. Her belly grumbles once more, too loudly to be blamed on a passing motorcycle. "I told you we should have got dessert" John offers.

Erica slumps against him defeatedly. The portions at the restaurant had been unforgivably small and she hadn't like to order too much given that he was paying. She'd decided on a salad, in the end, the more substantial options too intimidating. "I've had the equivalent of three lettuce leaves and half a bottle of white wine" she admits, "I'm _hungry_ , John."

A worry he'd been contemplating for the last hour hits the older man hard. He'd fared he'd got the tone wrong from the start. The laidback threads she wore, the uneasiness that had flashed across her features as she stepped tentatively into the venue. "That bad, huh?" he says, withdrawing into himself.

"It was lovely" Erica appeals, "Just not my sort of place."

John jerks his head modestly, eyes fixed on his shoes. He felt a total chump in his lavish suit now. "I suppose I wanted to show off" he professes, "Silly really". He finds his chin lifted gently. Youthful brown eyes gaze up at him.

"I don't think you're silly" Erica soothes, stroking his cheek, "Though paying a bill that big is a bit silly-" Her partner winces at the memory. "You don't need to impress me, John. You're perfect as you are". She chuckles softly. "Though if you ever feel like showering me in expensive jewelry, I wouldn't object."

He catches her by the waist and draws her back to him. "I love you."

Erica's breath catches in her chest. She'd never tire of hearing those words. "I love you too" she whispers, kissing him softly. "And I'll love you even more if you grab some proper food with me."

Insecurity banished, John nods in the positive. "Where to, love?"

Erica giggles. Perhaps the date would pan out after all. She glances about the street and promptly decides on a direction. "I say we just follow our noses."

* * *

Ed surmised that Roger must have the entire London skyline mapped out by now. For a self-proclaimed ' _life of the party_ ', he'd barely involved himself in the record company do. Only chatted with those who approached him first. Spent most of the night at the bar, somewhat neglected thanks to the barman's burgeoning interest in the journalist.

Guilty for leaving him lonely, though smiling more than he had in months, Ed approaches. "Can I borrow your cell?" he asks, "I want to let Erica know that I won't be home tonight."

Numbly, Roger extracts the clunky device from his jacket and tosses it to his friend. He glances over his shoulder to find the party in its final stages. Guests filtered out pair by pair and on the far side of the terrace the flirtatious boy from behind the bar clears up. "Got lucky, then?" he quips.

Ed shrugs coyly. "Fingers crossed."

Roger returns to the cold night, to the shadows of a city just starting to head for bed. "Great" he mutters. Ed joins him at the railings to his surprise. Stands close, too. Close enough to touch. _God_ , he wanted to. _Just once more,_ _please_.

"I think I deserve a one night stand after everything, don't you?" the redhead teases. He neglects his phone call for the time being and sparks a cigarette into life instead. Just another little pick-me-up to keep his demons occupied until the next one. If they were kind, the railing that cute barman had promised him would tie him through for a while. "Life seems pretty good for you right now" Roger adds unhelpfully.

"So I'm told," Ed laments, "And I guess I do feel pretty good about some things. My career, my friends."

"But even happy intervals like this party-" He takes a long drag. "Well, that's what they are, _intervals_. Little in-between moments that make me feel better about myself. Because deep down, Rog, I'm completely fucking miserable."

Roger senses a lump developing in his throat. He knew he was hearing a cry for help but he didn't know how to respond to it. That someone he cared for so intensely should feel so heartbroken hurt like Hell. "I don't know what to do"

"You do, you're just afraid to do it."

Roger grimaces. He was right and he hated that even more.

Ed's recoiling now too. He stamps his smoke out, visibly irritated with himself. "That was unfair of me. I'm sorry. I've had too much to drink."

"No, you're right-"

"Right, your place, or mine?" the barman bellows. The two friends turn to find him waiting, smug, coat on and ready to go. Cushioned by safe company no longer, Ed eases back into that upbeat facade of his. "Yours" he informs his hookup, "It'll be nice to escape the weed fumes and career-obsession for a night."

He returns to Roger. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have cornered you like that."

The drummer waves his hand nonchalantly. "It's forgotten" he asserts, "Go have fun for me, yeah?" He even finds it in himself to smile. At least he could look forward to pretending things between them were normal the next time they spoke. Kidding themselves was comforting in a tortured sort of way.

Ed claps him on the back. "Cheers, mate," he says.

* * *

John only realized how eager he was for a real serving once the plate was set before him. Steam caressing his neck, he licks his lips. As in the boutique restaurant uptown, he wasn't entirely sure what he was about to dive into, though he wasn't as bemused by it. He'd pointed to a picture above the counter and let Erica place the order.

 _Koshari_. A mixture of lentils, rice, peppers, and more. The smell was exquisite.

" _Shukran_ " she thanks, rubbing her hands together in glee. The kind lady from the counter bows graciously, elderly face lighting up.

"Shukaran" he attempts to repeat. The two women giggle at him.

"You've got the spirit" Erica encourages.

Her nose had done her justice as they traipsed the sidewalk in search of something hearty. By chance, hidden along an alleyway dotted with quaint street food joints, she'd spotted an Egyptian flag. It was the retreat she needed after the humiliation of the classy hotel. Buoyantly she'd hopped over the threshold, a ' _Salaam alaikum'_ on her lips.

John was entranced. He loved hearing her speak her first language. It didn't matter that he couldn't understand it, only that she sounded so confident. "Could you teach me a little?" he hopes.

Erica pops some of her food into her mouth. She'd opted for the _taameya_ , little balls of falafel packed with flavor. Her mother's tasted better, she thought, but they were delicious nonetheless. "Hello is a good place to start". She clears her throat with a sip of water. " _Marhaban_."

" _Marhaban_ " John replicates.

She whoops loudly. "Perfect. Now try _'ana_. It means I am. So, _'ana Erica_."

" _'ana John_ " the bassist attempts. His date squeals again and his heart sings. He knew how good it felt to be understood. He'd take classes and get the entire language memorized if he could.

"I'll let you decide what we do for the rest of the evening" Erica croons, "And don't be cheeky, this is our _first date_ , remember?"

"Me? Cheeky? Never" her boyfriend counters, nudging at her boot beneath the table. "I've just rented The Exorcist, actually. We could watch that if you like."

"Good choice. Fucking terrifying, though."

John sniggers as scenes from the movie flash through his mind. "I dunno. I find it quite funny."

Erica almost chokes on her falafel. " _Funny_?" she wheezes.

"Yeah. I could barely keep a straight face when I saw it at the theatre."

"You're a strange man" Erica exhales dreamily. A pretty pink haze comes over her and she's falling again. " _'ana 'uhibbuka_."

John shovels a forkful of lentils into his mouth. "You too, love."

"Aren't you going to ask what it means?"

"I don't need to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed's outfit inspo: rachelgilmannyc.blogspot.com/2010/01/debbie-harry-and-her-amazing-makeup.html  
> Erica's outfit inspo: www.pinterest.com/pin/459789443185667218/
> 
> Ed and Roger really do make me weepy sometimes. I always have to remind myself that things work out in the end.
> 
> I also really love Erica embracing her heritage. I'll have to show it more I think :-)


	12. Joan Jett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Erica has the hots for a certain guitarist.
> 
> Set 1985.

Erica had always credited herself with a vivid imagination. The talent was best to put to use while she was dreaming. Often she'd dream of whatever had played on her mind right before she fell asleep. Repeats of Joan Jett and The Blackhearts videos on MTV had provided her with something new to fixate on. Or rather, _someone_.

She'd been stood at a bar, sipping her whisky, when a strikingly attractive woman with shoulder-length black hair strolled in, head to toe in leather. She'd approached and the two got chatting. Erica's fantasies decided to skip most of the pleasantries, however, and without warning, she'd found herself lying back on silk sheets, dress torn off, the other woman buried between her legs.

"Oh, _God_ " Erica gasps, hands tangling through that deliciously soft head of hair, pulling hard with every wave of pleasure.

Dark brown eyes snap onto hers, twinkling with mischief. "There's a good girl" an American voice growls. The girl licks her lips and dives back to her clit.

White light bursting around her, Erica arches up off the bed.

" _Joan_."

The colors fade, and she finds herself where she'd nodded off. Her own bed. There were no silk sheets, no gorgeous girl eating her out. Just soft cotton and the feeling of an equally gorgeous man staring at her. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she looks to John. He's sat up, expression unreadable thanks to the darkness of the room. "What was all that about?" he poses.

Erica swallows hard. "Sorry, baby. Just a nightmare" she excuses.

She can tell he's narrowing his eyes at her now. "Some nightmare."

"Yeah" his girlfriend mumbles, settling back down on her pillow. She shuts her eyes and tries to sleep the embarrassment away. She quickly realizes it isn't going to work. Her legs still shook from the dream and she could sense John looking her way again.

"Who's Joan?" he asks a little crossly.

"Hmm?"

"The person whose name I just heard you call."

Erica glances up at him to find him with his arms folded. Her focus adjusts and she can see him pout too. She sighs, cheeks red-hot. "Joan Jett" she mutters, ashamed to have been caught.

"Sorry?"

She jolts up, her voice raised. " _Joan Jett_."

John hesitates. For a horrid moment, Erica wonders whether she'd offended him. He knew she was attracted to women and well as men. But what if he didn't like to be reminded? What if he was as judgemental as previous boyfriends?

John gives an elongated "Oh". His muscles relax and the pout vanishes. "I worried you had a secret lover called Joan for a second there."

Relieved, Erica chuckles. Of course he wasn't going to be spiteful. He was better than that. Grateful, she cuddles up beside him and takes another stab at a good night's sleep. She's actually a good way there until another interruption begins. While she was starting to feel at peace again, John had questions.

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?" he ponders curiously.

Erica considers the digital clock on the nightstand and groans. "It's three in the morning, John."

"Who else do you fancy? We might have someone in common."

She smiles against his chest. " _John_."

"Oh, three in the morning. Sorry."

* * *

One pile of papers organized, fifty to go. Erica knew she was exaggerating. Then again, the work spread before her did look as though it had multiplied since she started. It was to be expected, she supposed. She and Ed were climbing the career ladder at some speed by now. As well as being anchors on Top of the Pops, they'd been, perhaps ill-advisedly, given their own radio show.

The admin was considerable, the draft scripts long. She's striking red lines through one portion of dialogue when her boyfriend pokes his head around the doorframe. "Am I interrupting?"

"I hope so."

Cheerfully John strolls in. Erica immediately gets the feeling he's _up to something_. A sweet pink tints his cheeks and he appeared to be concealing something behind his back. He springs it on her just as he reaches the table. A brown paper bag, presented like the top prize on a gameshow.

"Weed?" she quips.

John giggles, bearing the tiny gap between his front teeth. "Have a look."

Gingerly Erica peels back the folds of the bag. Tucked within is a stuffed teddy bear. Its fur was a mousy brown, though its plump stomach had the colors of the rainbow threaded through it. She traces the stripes with her finger. The incident from a few nights back returns to her. It was a _pride bear_.

"It was the only rainbow thing I could find" John adds.

Erica strokes the bear's fluffy ears fondly. "It's adorable". For something so small, it meant a great deal.

"I know it's a bit silly, but I just wanted to reassure you," John says softly, "I support you."

Still clutching the teddy, the woman wraps her arms around him. "Thank you" she sings, pressing a kiss to his neck, "I don't think it's silly at all."

He smiles bashfully. "I'm sorry for throwing all those questions at you, too. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Erica invites him to sit down with her. Her work would wait for now. "You didn't" she assures him, "I'm happy to talk about it if you'd like."

John knots his hands with hers. "You're not about to run off with Joan Jett are you?" he cracks.

Bless his heart. He was even comfortable joking around with her. Erica realized that acceptance was the bare minimum she should expect of anyone. But this went beyond acceptance. It was _support_. _Validation_. She'd known prejudice before. The other men she'd dated had been plagued by it, Matt especially. It still made her sick, the accusations thrown her way that she couldn't possibly like men _and_ women. She was either _confused_ or a _closeted lesbian_.

As such, she'd only ever trusted Ed with the secret of her sexuality. Then she'd taken a leap and trusted John. Her faith was well-placed. He loved her totally, unconditionally.

"I _have_ had a girlfriend" she reveals, glad to actually be acknowledging such memories. "My first kiss was with a girl, actually."

" _Marie_. We were lab partners at school. She was so kind. So accepting of me. I was pretty angry as a teenager. _Temperamental_. Always found a way to get myself in trouble, to say things without thinking. She calmed me down."

John beams. "That sounds very wholesome."

Erica snickers. "It was. A beautiful, soppy romance. Though on one occasion we did have sex in a churchyard."

" _Oh_."

" _Yeah_."

"My first girlfriend was like that" the bassist relates. He blushes. "I mean, we didn't have sex in a churchyard. She was sweet, though. I met her not long after my dad died. She was there for me."

"She sounds lovely" Erica gazes.

"It's like what I have with you, except you're a million times better. I know I can be insecure, but you make me feel good."

"We make each other feel good."

* * *

There was nothing like excessive gun-toting and gang violence to wind up a Saturday evening. _Scarface_. Both John and Erica had seen it at the movie theatre when it was released, it turned out. It wasn't the most cutesy date-night flick, but they enjoyed it.

"That's a _lot_ of cocaine" John whistles, taking a swig of his beer.

"Does it take you back to all those rock n' roll parties in the 70s?" Erica pokes.

"That's a question better suited for Fred and Rog."

A glamorous woman waltzes onto the screen. A shimmering blue dress hangs off her, the curves of her breasts barely concealed. Glossy blonde hair framing her face, she pulls out a cigarette and slides it between her teeth.

Erica feels the hairs on the back of her neck prick up, followed by a gentle shiver. John's train of thought deteriorated at a similar pace. "She's very pretty, isn't she?" he observes.

" _Very_ " the younger woman breathes dreamily.

John sets his beer aside, lips toying with a smirk. "Are we going to have to add Michelle Pfeiffer to the hall pass?" he grins.

Erica shrugs coyly. She felt liberated enough to play with him now. It felt exquisite. "We can share her" she suggests.

" _Don't_. There's enough filth in my head right now" the man warns in a low tone.

Erica hums and slides into his lap. Batting her lashes, she begins to tenderly trace the handsome carvings of his face. "Care to share some of that filth with me?"

John's eyelids flutter. He breathes hard, easing into the strokes. "I'm sure you can imagine" he growls. He shifts just as she brushes his lips. He draws her finger between his teeth and sucks. Erica moans softly. Rolling her hips against his, she nibbles at his ear. "Describe it to me, baby" she invites. She's sure her panties must be soaked already.

"Do you want me to act as Michelle Pfeiffer?" John teases, digging his nails into his girlfriend's thighs.

Erica glances back toward the TV. The actress was there again. That wonderful imagination of hers springs back into life. Various scenarios dance about in her mind. They all involved the three of them getting down to it. It sounded like fun. She files the fantasy away for another night. What she had before her was enough. More than enough. The hottest, most gorgeous soul she'd ever met. "While she is very sexy" Erica purrs, sliding her hand into her lover's pants, "But I'd rather _you_ be _you_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The SELF-RESTRAINT it required to leave it there. Perhaps I'll continue it ;-)
> 
> This definitely isn't inspired by any recent awakenings of mine and subsequent conversations with my boyfriend. NOPE COULDN'T BE ME.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all doing well :-)


	13. Smalltown Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the emancipation of one Ed Tetley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explores potentially triggering themes, namely homophobia and abuse. I've always wanted to write a little more on Ed's past, particularly how he came to arrive in London and meet Erica.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :-)

**1976**

Ed Tetley strikes a pose before his mirror. Despite the smudges and cracks muddying his reflection, he could tell he looked good. He turns and goggles at himself over his shoulder. His parents had very little taste, he decided. Boys most certainly _did_ belong in dresses.

Happy with the look, he toys with the skirts. The yellow clashed a little with his unruly red hair, and he was so skinny the fabric hung right off him, but it felt so right.

He'd stolen the dress from his older cousin's closet. It didn't really fit her anyway. She'd only worn it to go dancing once. Frankly, Ed thought, she should be lucky she _had_ somewhere to dance. The magazines he had hidden under his bed, also smuggled from his cousin's house, were full of photos of glamorous men and women boogying at their local discos.

Studio 54 was a particular fixation of his. Often he dreamt it was him riding into the club on horseback, not Bianca Jagger. There was nowhere like that in the sleepy Northern village the Tetleys lived in. The closest he had was the tiny, rundown pub at the end of the lane, but his father had banned him from there. Not because he was fourteen, but because he didn't want the boy embarrassing him in front of his friends.

A creak sounds just outside his bedroom door. Ed races into his usual routine. He throws a heavy bathrobe over his dress, wipes the makeup from his eyes, and lowers the volume on his record player. He throws himself onto his bed and pulls his homework books out. He's just settling into his 'pretending to study' pose when the door swings open.

Mrs. Tetley hovers in the doorway. Immediately her expression sours. "What have I told you about keeping this door closed?" she snaps.

"That it's okay because you respect my privacy?" Ed claps back. His mother snarls. "No, didn't think so."

She barges inwards, clenched fists melding to her hips. "You know why I insist you keep it open" she reprimands.

Her teenage son glances about the bedroom. "I'm on my own" he points out, "What's the harm?"

A cold shiver passes through him as she steps nearer. He notices her peer at his closed wardrobe. She hesitates, ear angled toward the doors, as though awaiting a cough or heavy breath from within. The woman was paranoid.

She'd been that way ever since she strolled in one day to find her son kissing one of his schoolmates. _Another boy_. Ed suspected he'd never be able to erase the look she'd given him from his memory. The _disgust_ that struck her, so severe he thought she might vomit, the disappointment.

"You'll be sneaking them through the window next" she mutters darkly.

Ed rolls his eyes, a dangerous move. "I'm gay, I'm not a _spy_ ". He recoils and clutches at the fastenings of his bathrobe, willing them to stay put. He'd get twice the beating if she realized he had a dress hidden underneath

Mrs. Tetley hovers over him, her hand raised. "Stop calling yourself that. You're _not._ And stop saying that word like it's something _normal_ " she warns, "Now stop lounging around and get ready for church."

* * *

**1978**

Ed never expected sympathy. He'd always known better than that. There were times where it would have been nice, however. Occasions where he'd flunked tests at school. The bullying he'd experienced from his classmates. Practically anything that made him feel down or disappointed with himself. A kind smile and an encouraging word would have meant the world.

It most certainly would have prevented him from being where he was now, he suspected. Perhaps that was selfish of him. Unfair. It felt too much like blaming them. Ed couldn't decide whether or not they deserved it. It certainly kept them occupied, _guessing_. 

The boy goes to lift his arm, suddenly aware of how numb his limbs were, only to feel a sharp jolt of pain ripple through him. He pats down the bandages covering his wrist. His mother notices him through the glass screen and shakes her head. Her expression shifts. In a heartbeat, Ed can tell it's no longer his father she's blaming, but _him_.

Into the hospital room she bounds, Mr. Tetley hot on her heels. "Your father's just lost his job" she barks, "He doesn't need this stress."

Mr. Tetley throws himself into a nearby chair and sparks up a cigarette. He says nothing. Doesn't leap to his child's defense.

"They've closed the mine" the woman rattles on, pacing about frantically, "You're lucky you've still got a roof over your head. And _this_ is what you do to thank us. I'm so stressed I could burst."

"Told you that you were making him _soft_ " Mr. Tetley chips in. 

_Soft_. The word hits Ed hard, penetrates all the drugs and the bizarre IV cocktails. He was _soft_. Weak, in other words. So it _was_ his fault. If he was a little tougher, perhaps he wouldn't have let his bully's words affect him so much. Yes, he should have ignored the slurs hauled his way. Should have refuted the idea that he was a fag and therefore deserved to die. Never should have let it defeat him. 

If he was more of a man he'd have ignored the schoolboy's taunts and never even contemplated choking back painkillers. His dad's razor would never have tempted him either.

"At least we don't have to pay for all this" Mrs. Tetley observes, fiddling with the teen's IV lines. Ah, universal healthcare. That was the sole upside. Not that their only child had _survived_. 

Ed notices the alarm concealed beside his bed and triggers it impulsively. His parents barely notice, too wrapped up in their own problems.

One of the very few saviors he'd ever been allowed flies through the door. A nurse, effortlessly kind and helpful ever since his arrival. She ignores the adults in the room and perches at her patient's bedside. Wordlessly Ed tries to communicate his discomfort to her. His torture. Somehow, she understands.

"If you could please step outside" she orders.

Mr. Tetley attempts to square up to the woman. "But-"

"I asked you to leave, sir."

Reluctantly, the Tetleys shuffle into the corridor. The nurse leans near, warmth radiating off her. "I overheard them" she whispers, "Are they always like this?"

Ed nods. Suddenly he felt like crying. He rarely got the chance, invariably snapped at by someone about how crying was what _little girls did_.

"Do you want me to call someone?" the nurse offers, placing her hand over his, "They don't have to know."

One of Ed's friends was a girl in care. She'd escaped abusive parents and gone on to be accepted into the most lovely foster family possible. Whenever he'd visit her, he'd wish he too was part of that family. Perhaps he could be. Perhaps there was an escape.

Mrs. Tetley looks his way. Stares him down even from a distance, green eyes swimming with self-pity.

"No, it's okay" he hears himself, "It's fine."

* * *

**1980**

"God, what's this rubbish?" Mr. Tetley slaps at the car radio. The disco groove his son had been enjoying is cut off, replaced by an old Elvis track. " _Rock with you_. What bollocks. I preferred it when the charts were white."

"I like him" Ed pipes up.

The declaration falls on deaf ears. He wasn't surprised. His father had barely acknowledged him since their journey began. As he'd been reminded as they set off, he was being driven to the railway station as a _courtesy_.

Ed had announced his bid for freedom only to find his family supported it. Hurried it along, even. His mother hadn't wept as she helped him load up his things. Just offered him a cold farewell and reminded him to be on time. Again, Ed hadn't really expected any different.

Not that it wouldn't have been nice to be _missed_.

"Don't forget to attend that interview your mother got for you" Mr. Tetley voices gruffly.

"I'm not working in a _chapel_ " Ed protests. He went cold just considering it. It wouldn't be an open-minded place. It would be a medieval one. His mother wouldn't go for anything else. Always she'd latched onto some perverted idea that he could be _changed_.

"You'll work wherever you need to now you've got bills to pay. I'm still out of work thanks to Thatcher" his father reprimands, "Don't think you'll be getting handouts from us."

"I _won't_. I've never have and I never will" Ed sighs, exasperated, "I've never asked you or mum for anything."

Mr. Tetley looks a little red in the face now. " _Good_ " he huffs indignantly. He pauses, struggling for another unkind comment. "I'm not funding _that_ kind of lifestyle."

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean."

Ed grasps at his hair. God, he was sick of it. If he could skip the drive and immediately teleport to London, he'd be grateful. One more minute spent in the company of any of his family members was one too many. "What? Do you think I'm only moving for the _gay bars_? Fuck the degree I'll be getting. It's the sordid gay sex I'm looking forward to-"

" _Edward_ -"

"Don't _Edward_ me. You're obsessed. Mum too. I could do the most innocuous thing possible and your heads would still go there. And somehow _I'm_ the disgusting one."

"Shut up-"

"I've spent eighteen years hating myself. After all this time, it isn't _me_ who has the problem. It's you-"

The brakes slam and the red-head frantically reaches out to steady himself. The car screeches to a halt. Mr. Tetley flicks the lock on the car doors. "Out" he mumbles.

Ed blinks, dumbfounded. "What?"

His father smashes his hand against the steering wheel. " _Out_ " he cries, "You can make your own way."

The scared little boy in Ed creeps forward once more. Gingerly, he regards his father, the man who was meant to love and protect him. "But it's over a mile until the train station" he reason.

"I don't care."

Those were Mr. Tetley's final words to his son.

And so the boy finds himself stranded on the roadside with his luggage, rain falling hard, a long walk ahead of him.

* * *

London did not smell very pleasant. Ed had noted that the moment he'd stepped off the train, dragging his suitcases behind him. The odor of dirty water lingered in the air. Smoke drifted through deprived neighborhoods. Lofty cops guarded ivory towers while bare-boned men begged in the streets. The city was bleak, not at all as glamorous as his magazines made it out to be.

Yet he felt, dare he say it, _comfortable_.

Londoners dressed differently. Some waltzed by in bright threads, makeup painted on their faces in the usual New Romantic style. Others sported dyed mohawks and safety pin-covered checkered pants. A melting pot spilled before him. All colors, all races, all languages, all cultures. Everyone was different. They were happy to stand out. No one paid them no mind.

Ed's buoyancy had subsided a little when he'd arrived at his apartment to find it _empty_. His new roommates appeared to be out, whether at work or at college. He'd hoped to discover a diverse cast of characters waiting for him. His new family. People who could help him forget his parents.

The emptiness of the apartment did have some advantages, of course. Excitedly he digs out the stash of makeup he'd hidden at the bottom of his suitcase. He'd practiced secretly at home for years.

A rusting mirror standing in a corner of the sitting room attracts him. Laying the products before him, Ed wonders where he ought to start. He recalled a man he'd gazed at as he waited to catch the subway. He'd dressed like the missing member of Adam and the Ants. Ed sets about trying to replicate the man's makeup. He circles his eyes with heavy black eyeliner and generously applies pink blush to his cheeks.

He's just deciding on a lip color when the apartment door swings open.

In bumbles a short, slender girl with curly black hair. Her skin is a light brown, her eyes deliciously dark. Heavy black boots thundering along creaking floorboards, she struggles with a bag of groceries. No sooner had she reached the kitchen counter, the brown paper slips. A variety of vegetables tumble at her feet. Ed looks down to find a particularly large potato rolling at his toes.

" _ya 'iibn 'iil sharmuta_!" the girl curses. She aims an onion at the countertop angrily. Ed had never heard such a dialect before but he knew she was swearing blindly. He chuckles. He gathers some of the stray vegetables together and offers them to her.

She starts. "Oh," she breathes, looking at him for the first time. " _Hi_."

Ed gulps. " _Hi_."

The girl goes to offer him her hand, only to drop her groceries again. " _Fuck me_ " she growls, "I don't know what's wrong with me today. You must think me a right dickhead."

"Not at all" Ed smiles.

She sets the remnants of the brown paper bag aside and draws a healing breath. "I'm Erica" she introduces, "I'm assuming you're one of the new roommates?"

"Ed."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ed."

Prety eyes swimming with amusement, the girl giggles. "That's a strange accent" she notes.

"I'm from Yorkshire" the boy explains. Her accent was very different from his. Very London. There was a hint of something else, too. What his parents would have dismissed ridiculously as ' _foreign_ '.

"Oh, like the _country_? What was that like?"

"You don't want to know."

Erica respects that and doesn't pry any further. She spots the array of cosmetics displayed before the mirror. "I like your eyeliner" she compliments, "I can never get mine that even."

Ed pauses. He takes a good while to register the words. It was a compliment, but _genuine_. Not back-handed in the slightest. She really liked his makeup. A strange, fuzzy feeling spreads through him, right to his very soul. Someone was _appreciating_ him. Fuck, it felt good.

"What lip color were you thinking of?"

Jesus, it was like she read his mind.

"I dunno" the man mumbles, overcome.

Erica abandons her groceries and walks over to the mirror. She picks up a stick of red lipstick and removes the cap, revolving it in the dim lamplight so she can assess the color. "This would suit you," she says, "It's very Phil Oakey."

"Who?"

" _Phil Oakey_. The lead singer of The Human League?" Erica poses. She's met with a blank expression. Grinning, she meanders over to the record player on the far side of the room. She replaces the vinyl sitting beneath the needle with one resting nearby. Jacking the volume up, she hits the play button.

Out bursts the sting of a synthesizer. A clipped drumbeat follows. Then a pleasant, distinctive voice.

_You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar_

_When I met you_

_I picked you out, I shook you up_

_And turned you around_

_Turned you into someone new_

Ed taps his foot rhythmically. He suspected he'd heard the record on the radio before but he'd never really paid much attention. It was fucking good. Fun, _different_. Music to dance to, not a care in the world.

"Have you considered an earring?" Erica adds, swaying toward him again, "I think it'd suit you."

"I've always wanted to wear them but-" He falters. A heavyweight threatens to suffocate him. He takes a deep breath. He'd done well so far to remember _they_ were nowhere near enough to hurt him.

"Your parents wouldn't let you?" Erica finishes for him.

" _Yeah_ " Ed mutters, part of him still petrified his mother would hear.

"Fuck them" Erica declares. She raises the lipstick and waits for him to nod. He does silently. She swipes a line of red over his bottom lip, then the top one. She tells him to pucker his lips. A few smudges later, he's able to regard his appearance.

Ed sees himself in the mirror, only it isn't a repressed version he views now. He wasn't a boy waiting for his parents to storm into the room and dismiss him as a degenerate. He was a man being himself.

"I love it" he breathes.

"You look hot" Erica compliments. She'd summoned a cigarette from somewhere and was now happily smoking away. She offers him the carton. Ed hesitates. He'd only smoked once before. The rebellious boy he'd crushed on at school had offered him one behind the science building one afternoon. He wasn't overly interested in the habit. Then he remembered how his mother hated it.

"Thanks," he says, sliding a cigarette between his teeth. He tries to suppress the urge to choke. He didn't want to appear uncool in front of his new friend.

"I'm going out tonight with some friends. There's a club on the next block we've been meaning to check out" Erica tells him, "You should come."

"Are you sure?" Ed answers sheepishly.

Big lips tilting upward, Erica looks at him sympathetically. Compassion seemed to radiate from her. He'd barely even covered the trauma of his childhood but already it was like she understood. She was everything he'd never had back home. "Ed, I want you to hang out with me" she affirms.

Taking a deep breath, he returns her smile. "I'm in."

* * *

The club is packed. A group squeeze through the crowd, neon lights swaying overhead. Fighting their way to the bar, they put in their orders. "What's your poison?" asks one of Erica's friends, a handsome man with blonde hair. Intimidated by his beauty, Ed shouts the first thing that came to mind. "Jack and coke". The pretty man nods. Erica appears from behind, eyes narrowed.

"He _does_ swing that way if you're wondering" she confirms.

Ed splutters. " _What_?"

"Sorry" Erica replies, eyes widening, "I just thought-"

"No, no" the red-head excuses automically. He winces. He'd moved to London to escape the denial. He corrects himself with some effort. "I mean, I am-" He jerks his head. "But I wasn't-" He's coughing now. "I mean, he is very handsome but-"

"You can say you're gay" Erica says, squeezing his hand, "We don't give a shit."

"Okay," Ed beams, " _I'm gay_."

No hurried prayer follows, no look of disappointment. No one tries to tell him he's mistaken. The feeling washes over him like a tidal wave. For the first time in his life, he felt accepted. It was pure ecstasy.

A catchy synth riff picks up. Erica squeals in delight. She seizes her new roommate's hand and pulls him onto the dancefloor. "I love Tubeway Army" she shrieks.

_It's cold outside_

_And the paint's peeling off of my walls_

"I think they're playing here next week" she recollects , yelling in an attempt to be heard above the chaos of the club, "I wish I could afford the tickets."

_There's a man outside_

_In a long coat, grey hat, smoking a cigarette_

"I've only been to one concert before" Ed reveals, "I snuck into a Zeppelin gig. It was just before John Bonham died."

Erica latches onto his leather jacket excitedly. "I love Zeppelin" she agrees, "My mum got me into a few of their shows when they were touring in '77"

_Now the light fades out_

_And wonder what I'm doing in a room like this_

"Your mum sounds cool. Does she work in music?

"She works in a clothing store" Erica states proudly, "She just knows a lot of people in the industry."

_There's a knock on the door_

_And just for a second I thought_

_I remembered you_

_A groupie_ , Ed assumes. He doesn't say the word. He didn't want to offend his friend. There was no shame in it, of course. He'd dreamed for years of hanging out with rock bands. Often he'd daydreamed of being on the arm of people like Roger Daltrey. Such fantasies were what drew him to London. He knew he was naive to think he'd ever fulfilled them but after all the torment he'd suffered, he supposed he deserved a little blue sky thinking.

"She's great, my mum" Erica muses, "You'd like her."

_So now I'm alone_

_Now I can think for myself_

Ed wondered what it must be like to like one's mother. "I'm sure I would."

* * *

Ed's eyes open. Several sensations hit him at once, not all of them pleasant. A dull ache pounded in his head. His throat ached, the result of hours of singing and too much alcohol. His stomach grumbled, desperate to be filled with more than just the fast food he'd drunkenly scoffed the previous night. He bunches the covers around his neck, willing the sunlight to piss off.

As he tries to shield his eyes, catches sight of something smeared across the back of his left hand. The digits of a phone number scrawled messily in black ink. The first of many memories from the club flood back to him. The blonde man belonging to Erica's group had written it there after they'd made out in the back alley.

He hastily commits the number to paper before it could be washed away.

Humming pleasantly, sloppy kisses and wandering hands fresh in his mind, he waltzes into the kitchen. Erica's already at the stove, a girl he recognized to be another roommate clinging to her back. The two women giggle to themselves. The roommate whispers something in her ear then slinks away into her bedroom.

Blushing furiously, Erica looks up to greet the latest addition to the apartment. "Morning" she sighs airily, "You look like shit."

"Thanks" Ed snorts. He sniffs at the air and peeks into Erica's frying pan.

"I can make some eggs for you if you'd like" she suggests.

Ed's stomach growls impatiently. " _Please_."

"Good night?"

Nursing a cup of water, Ed nods. "The _best_ " he reflects, "I wish every night was like that."

Erica cheeses. "We're meant to be checking out another new club tonight, actually."

"Sign me up."

The other roommate croons from one of the adjoining bedrooms. " _Erica_ ". The young woman rips a plate from the overhanging cupboard and throws the contents of the frying pan onto it. She slides it along the kitchen table. "Help yourself" she invites, "I think I'm needed elsewhere."

She smirks. "That's an impressive hickey you've got there."

Ed clutches his neck. The skin there throbs beneath his palm. In the distorted reflection of his fork, he catches a glimpse of an ugly, purple mark. He thinks back to the handsome blonde man he'd met. "First of many, fingers crossed."

Erica claps him on the shoulder. "Good man," she spurs. She skips into the other girl's room and slams the door behind her.

Ed digs into his breakfast, too blissful to hear the suggestive noises that follow.

* * *

"Mama?" Erica peers into the tiny apartment.

From somewhere, a hoarse voice pierces the darkness. "Habibti?"

Flicking the light switch, the young woman follows the sound. Ed takes the time to survey the space. He'd never realized before that he was lucky to grow up with a backyard. Beyond his father's meticulously maintained flowerbeds, he'd had miles of fields to explore.

The Salib family home was a small apartment lost in a jungle of concrete. The surrounding district was a far cry from the polished, peaceful village he'd lived in with his parents. He could see how Erica earned her street smarts. Her _no-shits-given_ attitude. Living here must have been hard.

He wasn't judgemental. Quite the opposite. The apartment was wonderful, bursting with color and culture. Strange tapestries lined the walls, as well as family photographs. Something delightfully fragrant stewed in a pot on the kitchen counter. A stick of incense burned on the mantel.

It actually felt like a _home_. 

He can hear words he can't understand be uttered in one of the other rooms. Erica reappears. The happiness he'd become accustomed to seeing in her had dimmed a little. "Sorry, would you mind sitting with her while I make some coffee?" she stutters, "Mum's quite frail."

"I'd love to."

Ms Salib is indeed frail. Ed finds her sat up in bed, layers of blankets covering her. Yellowing eyes snap onto him. The woman opens her mouth to greet him. A fierce cough escapes first and she doubles over.

Ed hurries to hand her a tissue from her nightstand. He helps her hold it to her mouth, saying nothing of the spots of blood he notices spilling onto it. "Can I get you anything?" he offers concernedly.

"I'm fine, love" Erica's mother smiles weakly. She conceals the stained tissue as though fearing judgment. "You must be Ed. My Habibti's told me all about you."

"All good things I hope" the young man chuckles nervously.

"Very good things" the woman maintains, "I'm Chione."

Ed notices her eyes were just like Erica's. She didn't appear at all old. Late thirties at most. Yet she was so feeble. Her nightdress clung to her as though it were a thousand sizes too big. Her skin was darker than her daughter's, black, mingled with a sickly grey. Ed daren't imagine what illness could have ravaged her so. He holds her hand instinctively.

"I hear you're new to London" Chione observes.

"Yeah" Ed returns.

"Do you miss home?"

" _God no_."

Chione quirks a brow. "Oh? What makes you say that?"

"I suppose I realized I wasn't welcome back home" Ed acknowledges.

The older woman smiles. "I understand that" she sympathizes, "My home wasn't for me, either. I was always surrounded by people telling me how strange I was."

She coughs again. Ed passes another tissue to her. "England was so frightening when I first arrived here. It isn't as easy to fit in as I hoped."

Ed listens attentively. He didn't make guesses at how much Erica had told her mother. It didn't matter. She saw through him just as her daughter did. Escaping was wonderful, but it wasn't a silver bullet. Doubtless, he'd still have encounters with homophobes. Still battle the bigoted rhetoric he'd had forced down his throat every waking hour in his childhood home. It didn't scare him as he feared it might.

"But do you know what? I've found more community here than I could have ever dreamed of."

And it was because of _that_. Barely two weeks since his bid for freedom, he'd already discovered at least two people who _got_ him.

Chione places a bony hand over his. "You're always welcome here, Habibi. Know that."

* * *

The Salib's owned an impressive Jimi Hendrix collection. Every conceivable single and compilation was presented neatly in a leather case beside the aging record player in the corner. Erica had guided him through other well-preserved collections. Ed noted that several of the records she showed him were signed, playful messages addressed to Chione herself scrawled on the sleeves.

A flirtatious poem hidden beneath the tracklisting of a first edition printing of _L.A Woman_ was of particular interest. "Did your mum date Jim Morrison?" he'd asked. Erica had ignored that and changed the subject. He'd let it slide.

 _Voodoo Child_ wailing softly in the background, Chione lost in another of her deep sleeps, Erica sparks up a particularly thick cigarette. She spies her friend looking her way and sniggers. "You don't mind me smoking this, do you?"

The oblivious small-town boy in him makes Ed's eyes widen. "Is that weed?"

Erica inhales deeply. Eyes drifting shut, her head rolls onto the headrest of the armchair. " _Yeah_ ". She blindly waves the blunt his way. "There's a stash beneath the bookcase if you'd like some."

 _Fuck it_. Seizing once more upon his newfound emancipation, Ed retrieves the small wooden box. Strange nuggets of green sit in plastic bags within. There are some purple-ish lumps too, as well as a healthy supply of rolling papers.

"Mum says it's no good to her anymore. Said it would be a shame for it all to go to waste" Erica reveals. She spots Ed struggling. "The grinders' on the coffee table."

He fumbles his way through the process. He gets more of the stuff on the surface of the table than in the rolling paper. "I dread to think of what my dad would say if he saw me now" he retorts.

His roommate snorts. "I don't have one. You're safe here". He had noticed the lack of a father figure in the photos hung on the apartment walls but he hadn't liked to say anything. It didn't matter. He changes the subject.

"She's amazing, by the way. Your mother."

Erica smiles fondly. "She is". Her eyes glaze over sadly. "I love her more than anything."

Ed attempts a relaxed position in his seat. He toys with the lighter in his hand, trying to pluck up the courage to light the messy joint he'd assembled. "What's wrong with her?" he ponders delicately, "If you don't mind me asking."

"Honestly? I don't really know" Erica commiserates, "The doctors say it's a virus of some kind". She takes a long drag of her smoke. Vacantly she stares at the floorboards. "It's killing her."

Ed contemplates sweeping her into a hug. She'd not been vulnerable with him before. "I'm sorry."

"It's a fucking nightmare" Erica sums up. She sniffs harshly as though ordering her tears to wriggle their way back into the corners of her eyes. Ed wondered whether she made a habit of that. Bottling her feelings up. "She enjoyed meeting you, though. She's not been that cheerful in months."

"She's amazing" Ed relates, "I know it sounds silly but it feels like-" It's him staring at the floor now.

"Like having a mother?" Erica fills in for him.

"Yeah."

"Well, you're always welcome here. I know she'd love to have you around again, even if she is bedbound most of the time."

Ed tries again to click the lighter into life. He manages it this time. The blunt starts to brown. Smoke floods into his mouth. Eyes watering, he tries to process it all without choking. The back of his throat prickling, he breathes out and watches a dense cloud drift away from him. "She said that. That I'm welcome here."

"You _are_ " Erica repeats. "I think we're going to be really great friends, you and I."

"You're stoned" Ed cackles. He becomes aware of a gentle tingling at the back of his head. Bit by bit, his anxieties began to melt away.

" _True_ " his friend concedes, "But that's what makes it honest. I really like you, Tetley."

Loneliness forgotten, Ed grins. "I really like you too, Salib."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thoughts welcome as always :-)
> 
> Stay safe guys x


	14. Lady in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, John struggles to pick his moment.
> 
> Set in Munich 1985, before the main couples have got together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much plot here. I missed the gang being together. Also, I wanted to develop John and Erica's feelings a little more.
> 
> Also Freddie and Jim are in this on <3

"I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast" Ed sighs, letting his spoon clatter against his cereal bowl, "Can you stop staring at me?"

Roger scrambles to act as though he hadn't been. He rips a chunk from the pile of toast he'd build up and stuffs it into his mouth. He attempts to swallow down his tea too, a desperate attempt to appear preoccupied. All he does is end up with the drink dribbling down his chin. "I wasn't staring" he objects, sending crumbs flying.

Ed shields himself with his hand. "Don't fucking _spray_ me" he tuts.

Roger wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He felt like a toddler being scolded by their mother. He'd got the toast-mush allover his designer sweater, too. He'd worn it to breakfast hoping Ed might compliment him on it. "You're in a wonderful mood I see," he retorts cattily, frustrated that his efforts were leading him nowhere.

"I had my boss back in London call me up in the early hours" Ed relates. He takes a moment to swig his OJ like it was hard liquor. "Apparently we aren't working fast enough."

Total rubbish, Roger thought. He'd never known two journalists grind as hard as Ed and Erica. From the moment they'd arrived in Munich with the band, they'd jumped to it, forever conducting in-depth interviews and jotting down observations longer than a college thesis. They always made time for leisure, drinks with the boys in the hotel their favorite way to wind up an evening, but work was quite clearly their main focus.

Roger had heard their boss was a thoroughly unpleasant chap. "Fuck that" he declares, "You've already done so much."

Ed glances his way hopefully. "Do you think?"

"Definitely" the drummer attests. He shoots his shoot and maneuvers into the seat closest to the man. His efforts at being casual were cut short when he realizes the chair was covered with stacks of notes. Red-faced, he springs back up to his feet, sharp edges digging having dug into a most _sensitive_ place of his. Ed cackles unashamedly. "Daft git" he laughs.

Roger watches him clear the papers away. "Got quite a sharp tongue, haven't you?" he says.

Ed shrugs, deep green eyes glinting suggestively. "You'd be amazed by what my tongue can do."

Roger could faint. Coming up with witty replies required more effort than he was used to these days. More and more, the younger man _got to him_. He wonders how far he could push the banter they enjoyed. He's concocting a flirty remark when the other boys stroll in.

Freddie immediately snatches up a handful of cornflakes and showers his bandmate with them. Once he's picked the flakes from his hair, Roger realizes Ed's already returned to his manuscripts, brows furrowed in concentration. _Another time then_ , he supposed.

"Look lively, Rog" Fred announces, "I've got something rather exciting to reveal."

The frontman steals a croissant from Brian's plate. Jim kindly fishes out another for the guitarist.

John protects his fried eggs warily. He picks out a place at the table that meant he'd be exempt from thieving hands. He notices Ed, the absence of the journalist's colleague. "Where's Erica?" he asks, eyes widened like those of a lost puppy.

"Nursing a hangover probably" Ed mumbles. He tears himself from his work just long enough to aim a wink the bassist's way. "I'm sure she'd appreciate a visit". The other boys chortle under their breath. John pretends to notice something passing by the window.

"Nevermind your longing, Deaky" Freddie calls, grandly sweeping his arms through the air, "There's to be a charity ball here tonight. I offered us up as special guests."

Brian quirks his head. "What do you mean you _offered_ us?"

"It's nothing sinister" Jim intervenes. He pulls a seat out for his husband, "The organizers thought having some famous faces in attendance would attract more guests."

"We may as well since we're staying here" Roger nods.

Brian pokes at a vegetarian sausage with his fork. "I don't know" he worries, "I wanted to lay down some more guitar tracks tonight". He scowls when the blonde to his right scoffs.

" _Please_ " the drummer pokes, "You're just worried you'll miss _Eastenders_."

Ed senses an opportunity for mischief. He piles in. "You only watch it for that actress. What's her name? _Annie_? _Analise_?"

"If we could focus" Freddie speaks up, "It _is_ for charity."

"Get your tuxedoes on, darlings. We've a party to prepare for."

Roger nudges Ed. He felt confident enough to pester again. "Don't suppose you'd fancy being my date, would you?" he jokes. Of course, it wasn't a joke at all. He felt like a pimply teenager asking his crush to prom.

"I dunno" Ed responds, "I was hoping Brian would ask me."

"You hurt me, Tetley."

* * *

Ed wrestles with his bowtie a little too eagerly. The knot comes loose and he's back to square one. It had already taken him a good thirty minutes to decide on one. With what little money he had, he'd dashed from store to store, amassing as many as he could. He wanted to have a sizable collection to pick from. It wasn't often people like him were invited to _balls_. He wanted to impress the other guests.

Well, _Roger_ mainly, but that went unspoken.

Erica had similar hopes, though she'd managed to avoid a frantic trip into town. She'd packed for all occasions. She didn't get many opportunities to _dress up_ either. She liked looking good. Making an effort made her feel good.

She'd already earned one positive reaction and she hadn't even left her hotel room yet.

Ed lets his bow tie fall apart again. The swish of scarlet fabric and the shimmer of gold had caught him off guard. "Bloody hell" he gasps, "You're _gorgeous_."

Erica winks. "Not too bad yourself, babe" she jokes. She helps him with his tie, slapping his hands away when he tries to fiddle with it.

"I've not seen you wear that before. It's incredible."

The woman twirls on the spot. She settles into a modelesque pose, hands on her hips. Deep red skirts rested at her ankles. Long sleeves and a form-fitting bodice hugged her body perfectly. It was a modest dress, a departure from her usual threads, but oh-so-glamorous. She'd tamed her hair for the occasion, sweeping it up into a flattering updo. An ornate golden headpiece rests amongst her curls.

"It's _traditional_ " she reveals proudly, "I thought I'd treat the rich white folk downstairs to a little bit of culture."

Ed recalls a conversation he'd had with his friend before. "It's a jababiba, right?"

" _Jalabiya_ " Erica corrects.

"I love it" Ed compliments, marveling at the outfit, "John won't know what to do with himself". He catches the woman blush.

Coyly, she regards him. "I don't know what you mean."

Bullshit. Ed had known her long enough to realize when she had the hots for someone. The feeling was definitely reciprocated. The two didn't have many deep conversations or none that he'd ever witnessed. There were those obvious _looks_ , though. Stray touches disguised as little more than clumsy hands. Ed suspected they still didn't know one another overly well, Live Aid not that distant a memory, but the bond they shared was strong.

Attraction was a fierce thing. He hoped they were both prepared when it spilled over.

"Are you ready?"

Ed gives his reflection a once-over. Then a twice-over. Readjusting the white square in his top pocket, he admires himself. He'd opted for a traditional black tuxedo. It was a little frayed at the edges, perhaps a bit too tight, but it suited him.

"Are you sure it's _me_ who's trying to pull?" Erica assesses smugly.

"Don't be silly" Ed answers, hooking his arm through hers. He waits what he hopes is an appropriate amount of time. "Do you know if Roger's bringing anyone to this thing?"

* * *

Roger runs the cigar under his nose. He inhales slowly so he can take in every note. "That's a thing of beauty" he admires, revolving it between his fingers. He offers it to his bandmate for a smell. Intimidated by the crowd, John indulges himself. "Are these even legal?" he questions.

Roger rolls his eyes. "Lighten up, prick" he encourages. He snatches the cigar back, cuts the cap off, and lights up. Calmed, he lets his focus drift to another section of the ballroom. A young man with red hair had found just found himself surrounded by admirers. Roger notices the way they ogle him. He wasn't any better. He couldn't help himself.

Ed's suit was _very_ fitting, particularly around the ass. Where else was he meant to look?

John follows the drummer's line of sight. "Enjoying the view?" he taunts.

"Mind your business" Roger answers curtly. He stalks off to find someone to help him forget his heartache.

John moves in another direction. He'd spotted Freddie strutting out a tango on the dancefloor, Jim in his arms. He watches the couple for a while, their moves impressive. Together they sway in time with the string quartet playing in the corner, treating their growing audience to all manner of dips and twirls.

John had always considered himself a romantic. He liked seeing Fred happy. _In_ _love_. The strength of their feeling was obvious to him, though he suspected the other guests assumed the two men to be friends.

Something else stirs within him. Jealousy. He'd all but broken up with his wife before leaving for Munich. He and Ronnie kidded themselves by calling their split a _temporary separation_. A reunion had never played greatly on his mind, no matter how he worried for his children.

It was because of _her_. The veritable goddess dancing along to the jazzy motif floating through the air. She grew more radiant every time he saw her. It made him feel foolish. It was getting harder to act like he wasn't starstruck every time they spoke. _Erica_. All youthful vigor and fire. Clever, brazen, _cheeky_. Everything he was afraid to let himself want.

He muses on his feelings at the bar, checking on the woman every other drink to make sure she hadn't disappeared from view.

Ed stumbles his way, having enjoyed the last two songs with a man he recognized from the hotel's front desk. "Have you seen Roger?" he queries, slurring his words.

"He's here somewhere. I'm sure he'd love to dance if you asked him."

Ed helps himself to a swig of the bassist's gin. "I don't want to give him ideas."

"I think you'll find those ideas are already rooted quite securely in his mind."

The red-head considers that quitely and summons the bartender, having polished off the drink he'd stolen. John helps him steady himself, wary of him being ejected from the ballroom. "Like a drink, don't you?"

The journalist grins inanely. "Got to cope somehow, haven't I?"

"Cope with what?"

Too late. The man's uneven gaze was already galivanting elsewhere. He makes out a head of bright yellow hair in the distance and clears his throat loudly. He leans precariously against his friend. "How do I smell?"

"Like roses" John quips.

That's good enough for Ed. He staggers onward, clutching a martini to his chest. John tries to follow him to make sure he stays upright. Suddenly the boy's spinning on his heel and facing him again. "Don't avoid Erica all night will you?" he suggests, "Stalking her with your little heart eyes is touching and all, but it might be worth actually _talking_ to her."

"I wasn't avoiding her."

" _Sure_."

Ed disappears in pursuit of his heart's desire, and John bumps into his own.

"There you are" Erica beams.

Blood rushing to his head, _and elsewhere_ , the older man panics. "We need to talk" he blurts.

"Talk?"

"About stuff. Me and you. I mean not in that way. We need to get to know each other better. Well, we don't _need_ to, but-"

Erica places a hand on his shoulder. "Stop waffling and dance with me."

Feeling himself being drawn toward the music, John takes her waist. Violins swell. He convinces himself he's found himself in a cheesy romantic movie scene until he realizes it's just the band serenading the guests. The soulful pluckings of a double bass guide his feet. He does his best to ease into the tight embrace the woman held him in.

He cautions himself against getting handsy. He detested how curious he was. Her curves begged to be traced. How would it feel to caress her? To run his fingers across her skin? He shakes his head. _No_. He'd have to control himself.

"This is nice" Erica utters contentedly, "I was hoping I'd have a chance to get you all to myself."

 _Fuck_. "I'm all yours" he volunteers, praying his tongue didn't betray how winded he was.

" _Good_. It's hardly ever just the two of us. We only ever hangout when the others are around."

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. "I didn't realize I'd made such an impression on you."

Erica smirks. "You're quite the cocky bastard beneath it all, aren't you?"

John laughs breathily. He feels the silky fabric of her dress melt against the rough pads of his fingers. He'd never felt so touch-starved. From where he drew the self-assurance to carry on swaying with her, he couldn't tell. The frightened soul still clinging to the bare threads of his marriage urged him to bolt. He could entertain his fantasies from afar.

The need he had for her wasn't logical. They'd only known one another for a few months. So much of Erica remained a mystery to him, not to mention the fact that she'd joined the band in Munich to work. To harbor an attraction so strong was ridiculous, surely?

"John?"

"Erica?" John cringes. He was practically _singing_ her name now.

"I was wondering if you'd like to-" She hesitates, as though unable to decide on the right words. "Hangout a little more. Just the two of us.

"Hangout?

"Yeah" Another pause. She edges nearer. "We could go out to dinner or something."

John can smell her perfume now, a heavy, sultry musk. He inhales it like a drug. Wants it coated over every inch of himself. "I'd like that."

Disregarding the rest of the ballroom, Erica moves nearer still. She slips her hand from his shoulder to his chest, her palm spreading over the breast of his jacket. John clutches her waist, certain she's the only thing keeping him from succumbing entirely. "I really like you, John" he hears her whisper.

He glances at her lips. Thick, plump, coated in her usual shade of red. They part slightly. The rise and fall of her chest falls into rhythm with his. If he leaned his head her way, would she follow? Would she recoil or would she let him kiss her? Would she melt into him, onlookers be damned, and let him slip his fingers through her hair?

There was only one way to find out. He had to do it. He had to kiss her.

 _Snap_. The rose-tinted haze that had overcome his vision disperses like smoke, and he realizes the sporadic cockiness she'd praised him for had run dry. He remembers why he'd held off before. It wasn't right. He was risking too much.

Erica feels him peel away from her. Her expression sours.

"I need to call Ronnie" John barks. It had been the first excuse that sprung to mind.

"I thought you'd split up?"

"She's still the mother of my children."

"It'll be past midnight back home" Erica reasons.

"She stays up late" he lies.

"Fine" the woman speaks through gritted teeth, "Enjoy your phone call."

* * *

In dire need of a distraction, Erica had abandoned the charity ball for the basement studio. She'd hoped to find Brian there, or Fred and Jim, someone she could have a pleasant gossip with. Alas, the gang was enjoying themselves upstairs.

A pile of unfinished work lay forgotten on the table behind the mixing desk. The taunts from her boss that Ed had repeated to her return to taunt her. She sets to it.

For some reason, she felt like crying. Frustration bubbles up within her. She'd asked John on a date and he'd run off to 'talk to his wife'. She knew he was lying about the phone call. If he didn't like her in that way, why had he danced with her like that? Flirted with her? She thinks back to other times where he'd chatted her up only to turn around and focus on something else. There was never any follow-through.

What if he didn't really like her at all? What if he just enjoyed teasing her?

The studio door creaks open. It's him, come to goad her once more.

"You vanished" John observes, voice small.

"Shouldn't you be on the phone?" Erica flings. She misses the grimace he wears, too insistent on staring down the paper she was annotating.

"I'll call tomorrow."

Gingerly he perches on the couch beside her. They sit in silence for some time, one of them too upset to talk, the other too nervous.

"What's your favorite kind of food?" John asks. He dares himself to look her in the eye. He knew he'd start spiraling again before too long but she was too stunning to ignore.

"Excuse me?"

"I was just wondering what kind of restaurants I should be looking up, for that dinner you mentioned."

Erica rubs her temple. _What's the point_ , she thinks, _you'll only ditch me halfway through the meal_. She didn't enjoy being cold with him. But if he could stop toying with her for one fucking minute...

John chances tact. "Tell me an interesting fact about yourself."

Erica throws her papers down. "What is this? Twenty-one questions?"

The bassist shifts on the couch so he can address her face-to-face. "I'm sorry I upset you" he offers. The hand he tries to move towards her goes untouched. Though it had terrified him, the embrace they'd shared in the ballroom had left him hungry. It didn't help that they were totally alone now. He could try again for that kiss if he really wanted to.

"You didn't upset me" the journalist insists, petulant.

"Okay," John sighs.

"Don't _okay_ me. I'm _not_ upset."

Shit. He'd blown it, hadn't he? Ed had been right. They needed to actually talk, and not just about each other's work. He could jump the gun and indulge this bizarre, all-encompassing attraction he felt, but where would that lead? "I just feel like there's still so much I'd love to know about you" he commiserates.

Erica reciprocates the sad glance he had trained her way. "You sound like you're trying to justify something."

John notices her lips again. "I suppose I am" he breathes.

The space between them shortens.

"You don't have to," Erica tells him. She rests her hand on his knee, willing him nearer. Her eyes flicker down.

John reaches out to touch her hair. His fingers quickly lose all control, and before he knows it he's pulling her to him. "I really like you too, you know" he murmurs.

"I know."

He ghosts parted lips with his own. He was ready. He could ask her those stupid twenty-one questions another day. He had to have her now. Had to take the leap.

Heavy footsteps thunder down the staircase. John opens his eyes to find Erica looking toward the door. He lands back on Earth with a thump.

Ed and Roger peer into the studio, drunk and oddly _close_. They spot the couple on the sofa and mumble to themselves. John hears something about "it being a silly idea anyway" and how it was "time for bed". Whatever spur of the moment plan they'd concocted is abandoned and the two men bid one another good night.

Erica returns to her work. John doesn't get his kiss. He never would, would he? Even the basement wasn't private enough. Something always came between them. If they could only go somewhere no one would find them, where they couldn't bolt the second they got second thoughts. Somewhere far away, just the two of them...

"So, dinner?" he swallows.

"Yeah. Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do feel I missed out on the chance to flesh out John and Erica's attraction to each other in the original story. I wanted this chapter to build it up a bit and show why the escape to Bali was as impromptu as it was.
> 
> Two updates in as many days! Can you tell I'm bored working from home?


	15. A Town Called Malice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the formative years of one Erica Salib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of racism and bullying. Drug abuse is also referenced. Writing about Ed's past was so cathartic and fascinating for me, I knew I had to do the same for Erica.

**1970**

With a squeak, Erica Salib hauls her suitcase to the top stair. She throws herself on top, spreading her limbs out like a starfish in an effort to stop it teetering downward again. There was no chance in Hell she'd be trudging after it if it did. Her little arms ached like nothing else, and the lack of an elevator had meant she'd had to scale all eight floors of the building. Lifting a curtain of thick black hair, she spies her mother fighting a losing battle with her own luggage.

A suited man dashes out from a nearby apartment and rushes past the two, but not before he knocks into the young woman, his elbow digging into her side in an accidentally-on-purpose kind of way. Chione's case falls at her feet. She loses control of the bedding she had tucked under her arm, too. The man glares at her before continuing on his way. " _Ayreh feek_ " she hisses.

"What does that mean, mama?" Erica asks. She'd heard her mother mutter the saying before but didn't know what it meant.

"Something adults say, little bird" Chione answers. Retrieving the last of her things, she makes those agonizing final strides towards the top of the stairs. There'd be another journey down the corridor, and the hassle of actually furnishing her new home, but little victories had kept her going all day.

"Why did that man look at us like that?" Erica wonders innocently. She notices her mother is struggling again and attempts to drag every case to the apartment door at once. She gives up quickly, cheeks bright red for lack of air, and flops onto the floor. Chione sighs and picks her up. "Perhaps he's just having a bad day" she lies, picking flecks of dust from the little girl's coat, "Now, are you excited to see your new bedroom?"

Erica's wide brown eyes light up. She dances on the spot. " _Nem min fadlik_ , mama!"

They've shared a room in their last home. _Home_ was a generous word, come to think of it. A minute box of an apartment above a country pub was hardly the greatest place for someone to spend the first eight years of their life. Yet Erica had never known any different.

She enters the Salib's new residence as though it were a palace. The main room is empty, no couch or carpet, dirty kitchen counters, and a rusting stove crammed into a damp corner. The girl embarks on a whistlestop tour of the other rooms. The bathroom fascinates her particularly. They had a bathtub _and_ a shower.

Chione looks around the apartment and for the first time since her arrival in England feels at home. A great deal of hard work, but it was a home nonetheless.

Throwing her Afghan onto the floorboards, she places her hands on her hips. Where to start? Fitting everything in wouldn't be an issue. The family barely owned anything. There were no cabinets, though, no tables. She realized what little she had would probably remain in suitcases for some time.

"There's only one bed frame" the girl calls.

"We'll have to share for now. I'm sorry."

"That's okay. I love sharing with you". Erica reappears, a tiny sprite reveling in all the space she now had. "Can we get a record player, mama?" she asks.

Chione grins. She'd wanted one for as long as she could remember. "That would be lovely, Habibti" she says, "Where would it look best, do you think?" She watches her daughter take in her surroundings. With a chubby finger, she points to the corner nearest the door. "There."

"So we can put a record on as soon as we get home."

"I already have something we can play" Chione reveals. She digs into her case for a recent impulse purchase of hers. She'd scolded herself when she bought it, knowing damn well she had to save for the move to London, and that she didn't have anything to play it on, but she just hadn't been able to resist. She presents the vinyl proudly.

Amazed, Erica traces the patterns printed on the cover. "Led Zep- Led Zep-"

" _Zeppelin_ , Habibti. _Mintad_."

The girl understands.

Chione puts the record away before she can grow too excited. Record players were expensive. And given their lack of everything else, such a thing would likely fall far down on the list. She'd already managed to secure a job as a store clerk and was looking for another. Rent would give her many sleepless nights. Still, there were things to look forward to.

The life and vigor of the city. Opportunities for her daughter that didn't exist in their old town. _A social life_.

Holding Erica near, she manages a hopeful smile. "You see, that's why we moved here, Habibti," she says, " _Music_."

* * *

**1975**

_A television set_. In _her_ home. Erica could scarcely believe it. She'd been jabbering to her school friends about it all day, and here it was. Lying on the rug, hands cupping her face in wonder, she watches the black and white figures moving across the screen. A slightly distorted graphic slides into view. _Top of the Pops_. She squeals. She'd only ever been able to listen to the charts on the radio.

"Not too close, little bird" Chione twitters kindly, "You'll ruin your eyesight."

The thirteen-year-old shuffles backward, only to crawl forward again when she thinks her mother isn't looking. She had to stay focused. A glamorous group of men take to the stage, their hair long, their outfits glittering. _T-Rex_. She had a poster of Marc Bolan on her bedroom wall. Indeed, she'd stayed up the previous night pretending to ask him questions. And kissing him. Just the _once_ , though.

She tears herself away from the TV so she can repeat all the facts she'd learned about the band from her magazines. She finds her mother applying her makeup in front of the mirror. She had her best playsuit on, the one with the wide collar and even wider pant legs. She only ever wore it when she had somewhere to go. "Mama" Erica pipes up, "I thought you were staying at home tonight? We were going to watch a movie."

Chione stops. She could have sworn she'd already told the girl. Then again, she'd been so _busy_. "Another night, Habibti. I'm sorry."

_No reply._

"Joni and Dawn are calling by to babysit. I'm sure they'd love to watch it with you."

_Silence._

Chione bows her head sadly. Was she a bad mother? She wrestled with the question every time she made plans to go out. Everyone told her she deserved time to herself. Single motherhood didn't mean she had to stay in always, did it?

For her, fun was seeing the many bands that rolled through towns. She'd have a few drinks with her friends, indulge in something a little extra if she felt so inclined. If the musicians didn't approach her first, _and they usually did_ , she'd sweet talk her way backstage. Then the real party could begin. She'd be back by midnight at the latest.

Too late to read her daughter to sleep, though. Too late to tuck her into bed and kiss her.

She tugs at her afro. What to do?

Erica already knew what her mother choose.

So when midnight rolls around, she creeps out of bed to see if she'd come home yet. She often did that. Sometimes she was there, sometimes she wasn't. When she was, she was already asleep. Or she'd sound strange, her words slurred. She wouldn't get a proper ' _good night'_ either way.

On this occasion, she finds Chione passed out on the couch. The lamps are dimmed and at the kitchen counter, a strange man stands. He was similar to others her mother had brought home before, Erica noticed, all shoulder-length hair and white skin. He greets the girl warily. His eyes dart nervously to the coffee table, and the lines of white smeared across the glass top.

He didn't look well. Twitchy, vacant behind the eyes, like his muscles were full of fire but his brain had long since switched off. Erica is baffled by the sight. Was this was a fun night out was about? She hadn't realized dancing could do so much to people. Perhaps she'd understand when she was older.

She'd asked before if she could tag along. She liked music too. Why couldn't she join in? The cigarette smoke in the clubs wouldn't bother her. It already surrounded her at all hours. Despite her confusion at the state her mother regularly arrived home in, she felt as though she was missing out. All those concerts she attended had to be worth it. Why else would she keep doing it?

Yes, she decides, they'd have fun. She wouldn't mind missing bedtime stories if it meant she could hang out with her mum a little more.

"Hi" the strange guest stutters, scrambling to button his shirt.

Erica just waves and heads back to bed, to her teddy bears and her dreams.

* * *

**1976**

Short legs be damned. Erica races along the sidewalk. For some fifteen minutes, she'd been alternating between a fast walk and a sprint. Despite the rumbling of her stomach, she was glad she'd skipped out on the school cafeteria, certain that by now she'd be doubled over if she'd been able to afford a proper meal. She remained light, agile.

The gang of teenagers hot on her heels kept her going, too.

On and on the street ahead stretched. She considers signaling to a passing driver. Knowing her luck, she'd attract the wrong kind and find herself being attacked from both sides. _No_ , she had to keep running. Just a little bit further, and she'd be on the right block. She could retreat to the safety of the apartment and pretend as though her journey home had been nothing but ordinary.

 _Shit_. A lorry pulls out just in front of her. Erica skids to a halt. Praying silently, she risks a glance over her shoulder. The bullies notice her looking their way and gesture wildly. "There she is!" one girl yells. Suddenly, the whole pack are storming towards her again. With nothing but an unfamiliar alleyway to turn down, Erica makes a break for it.

All this over a simple break in translation. Erica's English was immaculate, but it was still her second language. She _thought_ in Arabic, _muttered_ to herself in Arabic. That was all she'd done. Thought aloud in class. A phrase in one of her textbooks had perplexed her, so she'd translated it for herself. Her friends paid little attention to it. The unpleasant characters skulking at the back of the room did.

Out of earshot of their teacher, one of the boys had threatened her. "We'll be waiting outside the gate" he'd growled, fist clenched.

Too many people she'd met were like that. The kind of folk who tensed the second they heard anything they didn't understand. Always they'd glare at her as though she'd insulted them in some way. She could recall an incident in the grocery store some months back when she'd recited a shopping list back to her mother. The guard at the door had promptly accused her of insulting him and demanded the two shop elsewhere.

She was starting to reach the end of her tether. Not just from the running, but the _abuse_. What the fuck was their problem? Why couldn't they leave her alone? Why did they expect everyone they met to look and sound the same? 

Damn. A dead end. Erica collides with a brick wall. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. They were still coming, still jeering. She hears footsteps slow behind her. Shaking, she faces the gang.

Oozing hatred, teeth bared, they make monkey noises at her, twisted howls they knew would haunt her all night. Determined not to let them see her break, Erica gulps. The leader of the group, a boy twice her size with a shaved head, swaggers over, sleeves rolled up. "What's the matter?" he barks, "Nowhere to run to? Stupid black bitch."

Erica panics. Exhausted, she can only think of doing one thing. She balls her hand into a fist and smashes it into the boy's face. Something breaks against her knuckles, and the boy falls. The other bullies bolt before the blood has a chance to flow. A fierce pain in her wrist, Erica watches them scarper, deaf to the whimpers of the skinhead rolling in the dirt.

* * *

**1978**

The entire population of London seemed to cram through the doors of the club. Erica had never known a place so busy. She wasn't mad about it. Quite the opposite. She liked being in the center of things. And with such a crowd, who would notice a sixteen-year-old? She might even get away with ordering a drink at the bar if she was lucky.

She was starting to understand why her mum spent so much time in such places. So much happened, at every second, in every square inch. Strange chemical smells drifted through the air, close and hot. The floor shook, the aggressive thumping of a bass guitar tearing through every surface. Just another fan amongst the masses, she wriggles her way toward the stage.

Seeking out a vantage point, just in front of two men with mohawks, she takes out the pack of cigarettes she'd stolen from her mother's coat pocket. The tips she'd earned from her shift at the coffee shop were her way of apologizing, stuffed into Chione's carton to replace the missing carton. Smoking had become a habit. It was nice, _relaxing,_ ugly as it was.

Erica didn't feel at all tempted by the other things her mum hid from her, in little bags behind bookcases and under plant pots. Those things weren't relaxing. They were _zombifying_. Needles scared her, anyway.

The support act filter away to the wings. An already deafening sound triples into something supersonic, the very foundations of the hall threatening to cave in. The crowd is hysterical. Erica jumps in time with them. Throws her hands in the air, basking in the atmosphere.

_I am an anti-Christ_

_I am an anarchist_

The frontman snarls the lyrics at the audience. Erica hangs onto every word, every note. No escape was greater, not even cigarettes. Music made her problems feel manageable. The louder, the better. She couldn't hear her anxieties if the amplifiers were turned up to number ten.

_Don't know what I want_

_But I know how to get it_

_I want to destroy the passerby_

The fans are crashing into one another now, desperate to vent their excitement. She dodges most of the pushes. She hops onto the edge of the stage just before true chaos descends, keen to return home in one piece. Settling atop a discarded bass drum, oblivious to the roadies yelling at her to move on the peripheral, she returns to the band.

_'Cause I wanna be anarchy_

_Anarchy for the U.K._

The spiky-haired man scratching away at the lead guitar spots her. She freezes. Stars burst around her. Her heart pounds against her chest. He's coming over. Jaw dropped, she tries to think of something interesting to say.

"Give us a drag, love?" the guitarist requests, nodding to the cigarette she holds.

Numbly, Erica twirls it in her fingers and lets him have a puff. "Cheers," he says. He returns to the spotlight like nothing had happened.

 _Holy shit_. He'd acknowledged her. Spoken to her. Didn't just stare back at her like her posters did. She wanted more. Wanted to _know_ him, and the rest of the band too. Screaming fanatically amongst a crowd was splendid, but this? If she could make a living off it, she'd be a happy woman. Not the angry, confused girl she was now.

Glowing, Erica leans back to enjoy the rest of the show. She'd have to sneak out of the house more often.

* * *

**1980**

A scintillating fragrance fills the apartment. Erica can smell it as soon as she's over the threshold. Her mother is at the stove, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She's surprised to find her out of bed. She'd been battling a flu of some kind for days now. "Marhaban, mama" she greets.

Chione breaks into a grin immediately. Taking the pan off the heat, she sweeps her daughter into a warm hug. "Oh, Habibti" she gushes, "The university just called."

Erica freezes. "City college?" she gasps. She'd worked her ass off trying to get a place. The English course was her destiny, she'd decided. She'd feared she'd blown her chances when she turned up to her interview in her word threads.

Her mother cackles joyfully. The laughter catches in her throat and she coughs harshly onto her sleeve. Spots of red dot the material. " _Mama_?" Erica breathes, blood running cold. Chione hides her hand behind her back and massages her chest with the other. "I'm fine, little bird" she insists. Happy tears bubble up in her eyes. "You got in. You were accepted."

" _Ya 'iilhi_!" Erica shrieks, pulling her in for another hug, "I can't believe it!"

"I can, Habibti" her mum soothes, stroking her hair fondly, "You've worked so hard. I know you're going to do wonderful things."

She nudges against her shoulder. "Thank you," she whispers, "For everything."

Chione presses a kiss to her forehead. "I haven't exactly been the perfect mother these last few years" she confesses, "But know I love you, more than anything."

"I know, mama."

Her mother kisses her again. She'd always been affectionate, but she was especially so lately. As if she worrying she wouldn't always have the opportunity.

"Now, go and sit at the table. I've made you some _rorzz me'ammar_ to celebrate."

* * *

Barely one week in, Erica had fulfilled most of the student stereotypes. She'd attracted a noise complaint from the neighbors of the apartment she and her roommates were renting, three AM apparently not the right time to play ACDC's _Back in Black_ album. She'd pulled an all-nighter reading up for her first lecture. She'd got blackout drunk. And now she'd woken up in a stranger's bed.

The art of the one night stand still foreign to her, she makes a poor attempt at tiptoeing around her hookup's bedroom. She fumbles with her jeans, somehow managing to squeeze both feet through the same leg. " _Fuck's sake_ " she murmurs.

A mop of tidy blonde hair emerges from beneath tangled bedsheets. "Making a run for it?" the man quips.

"Unsuccessfully, as you can see" Erica snorts.

The man sits upright and watches her search the floor for the rest of her clothes. The location of her bra was proving a particularly difficult mystery. She'd flung it off the night before in an effort to appear _sexy_. It wasn't worth it. Worse, she'd have to _talk_ to him now. She wasn't even sure why she'd shagged him. She was already mid-fling with one of her female roommates. He wasn't attractive, either. Prim, proper, not her sort of person at all. 

"I'm Matt, by the way," he says.

"I know" Erica fibs, "You're a History guy, right?"

" _Law_ " Matt corrects matter of factly.

 _Boring_ either way. 

He narrows his eyes at her. "I didn't realize you were one of _those_ girls" he comments.

Erica fixes him with a cold stare. "One of _those_ girls?"

"The hit and run kind. You seemed better than that. _Classier_. My mistake."

" _Or mine_ " she dismisses. Accepting that her bra would remain missing, she throws her leather jacket on and makes a break for the door.

"Got somewhere to be?" Matt accuses. Christ, how fragile _was_ his ego?

"Sorry. You know we _sluts_ can be" Erica calls back, "So many men to fuck, so little time."

Content in the belief that she'd never have to see the man again, she heads for home. The college campus they shared was big enough that she could probably get away with it. Then again, with a head that big, he might be hard to miss. She chuckles to herself and reaches into her pocket for her cigarettes. Fuck. _Empty_.

A grocery store on the horizon beckons her. It would be nice to have some actual food in the refrigerator. There was a new roommate arriving today, too. She could cook for the whole apartment and let everyone get to know one another.

One brown paper bag later, and her arms are full. Slowly she navigates her way home. She's quite proud of herself for making the journey without dropping anything.

Naturally, the bag splits the second she's through the door. Vegetables spill across the floorboards, taunting her with how slow they rolled. " _ya 'iibn 'iil sharmuta_ " she swears. She throws an onion at the counter only for that to bounce away too.

A stick of broccoli is held out to her.

Another stranger, only this one had an air of compassion about him. He's tall, gangly. Ginger hairs sprout from his scalp in loose curls. Pleasant green eyes twinkle behind thin-rimmed glasses. He's handsome, if a little shy-looking. Then again, she thinks, that wasn't a bad thing. Not everyone had to be a raging showboat, did they? He might balance her out pretty well.

"Oh," she speaks, " _Hi_."

The man regards her nervously. "Hi" he replies. His accent is odd. Heavy, Northern.

Erica offers her hand instinctively, forgetting she was still holding the bare scraps of her grocery bag. " _Fuck me_ " she curses, "I don't know what's wrong with me today". She thinks back to her awkward hookup and cringes. "You must think me a right dickhead."

 _Great_ , and now she was swearing like a sailor.

"Not at all" he assures her.

She breathes deeply. _Try again_. "I'm Erica" she introduces, "I'm assuming you're one of the new roommates?"

"Ed."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was THE Matt.
> 
> This was really fun to write! It was interesting to write a little more about Chione.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :-)


	16. Bali Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, little bits and pieces from the infamous first escape to Bali.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda avoiding the unseen chapters with bigger plots (Ed, Rog and Debbie's conception story is on its way I swear) because work has me bogged down, so have yet another silly little idea that sprung into my mind that I thought I'd indulge myself in.

Despite how last minute it had been reserved, the beach hut was perfect. On the edge of the forest, hidden from prying eyes, it stood just off the shoreline, a proud if quaint cottage on wooden stilts. Dumping their luggage in the center of the room, John and Erica take a moment to appreciate their surroundings. Upon quick inspection, they had all they needed. A shower, a small kitchen, somewhere to sit and listen to the radio of an evening. A double bed lay beyond a beaded partition, the covers sprinkled with native flowers.

Erica realizes how well managed the cottage is and panics. "Are you sure don't want any help with the bill?" she proposes, biting her nails anxiously. It would take her months to match even half of the price John had paid, but not contributing made her uncomfortable. She'd been paying her own way for things since she was fifteen.

"Don't be silly" John objects.

Erica quirks a brow. "I suppose this is spare change to you, isn't it?" she quips. She tries not to sound resentful. She wasn't accustomed to being around people with _so much money_. Freddie and Roger especially liked to make a show of their wealth. She and Ed barely made rent. At least John wasn't boastful. Quite the opposite, in fact. In the few instances where she'd seen him spend a considerable amount, he'd seemed almost apologetic.

He'd hesitated over the booking fee of the hut like it would dent his bank balance.

He swipes her by the waist. Erica starts. She still wasn't used to being so close to him. The sudden, five-minute fuck they'd enjoyed on the couch back in Munich felt like a dream. She'd been crushing on him barely any time ago. "Your company more than makes up for it" he comments, bright eyes drifting yet again to her lips.

They'd barely kept it together during the flight over. Somehow, the plane toilet had been permanently occupied. Membership of the mile hile club remained out of reach.

Erica forces herself to detach from him. "Steady on" she cautions, ignoring the heat prickling beneath her skin, "We need to talk, remember? To figure out what we are."

John concedes with a nod. "You're right. We need to be adults about this. _Talk_ first-" He gulps, his mind occupied by less than Christian thoughts.

Erica clears her throat. " _Other stuff later_ " she finishes.

The two share a look, faces reddened such was the effort they employed. As fun as that midnight shag had been, it had left a lingering taste. Things they'd only imagined about one another had come to fruition. Those first explorations were divine, but they needed more. Needed it longer, harder. It was like being a horny teenager again, trapped in vicious, hormonal cycles.

Erica tugs at the collar of her top. The Indonesian sunshine was a vast departure from the subdued light of Germany. "Christ, it's _boiling_ " she observes, her attempt at small talk. The heat mounts up out of nowhere, and for some reason she finds herself pulling her t-shirt over her head. A subtle sea breeze tickles at her. "That's better" she mutters. Already her eyes were fixed on John's.

"You're fucking kidding me" he groans. He throws himself at her, his fingers making quick work of the fastenings of her bra.

* * *

"When's your birthday?"

Erica peers at her lover curiously. _Of all the questions_. "You know when my birthday is" she reminds him.

Sinking into the mattress beside her, John grimaces bashfully. "Oh yeah. Sorry."

The woman goes to lift herself into a sitting position, then remembers the mess festering on her chest. She snorts. "You just came on my tits. I think we're past silly questions, don't you?"

The bassist blushes and tucks the bedsheets beneath his chin.

Erica finds herself withdrawing too. Shyness had never been a great affliction of hers. She'd never thought twice about sounding _vulgar_ until now. "I'm not very _ladylike_ , am I?" she recognizes with a heavy sigh.

"That's an understatement" John smirks. He scratches a hickey blooming on his neck. Erica bites her lip. She was slowly starting to understand how deeply contrasted the different sides of him were. She'd never known someone to be so innocent yet so fucking _cocky_. He was a walking dilemma, one she couldn't wait to dissect further. "What does that even mean? _Ladylike_?" he goes on, "Who says women have to be a certain way?"

"How very feminist of you, Deacon. I'm impressed" Erica smiles. Nimbly, she maneuvers herself from the bed and waddles over to the bathroom. Wetting a towel, she wipes herself down. She takes a moment before she tosses another to the older man, lost in the crazed yet glowing reflection that met her in the mirror. Bit by bit, it hit her; How impromptu their escape had been. They had two weeks together, no interruptions.

They'd either decide they had enough of a connection to make a go of things, or they'd resign themselves to a fleeting affair.

"Honestly? I _like_ it" John confesses, "How outgoing you are. It's all pretty new for me."

Oblivious to her nakedness, Erica hesitates in the doorway. "In a good way?" she hopes. She'd known too many men who dismissed her as 'loud-mouthed'. 

He grins at her, eyes wrinkling, the little gap between his front teeth bared proudly. "Yes, love. In a good way."

She's happy with that. Gladly, she hops back into bed, snuggling against his side. He was warm, not in the stifling way the tropical heat punished her with, but a comforting way. She figured she could lie by his side for hours, days if the universe would allow it. It was encouraging. Confirmation that her connection with John wasn't just an intense attraction but something more soulful.

Maybe they could manage the other stuff?

"I don't think you're at all as nervous as you make out, by the way," Erica surmises, "You're much more self-assured than you give yourself credit for."

John chuckles, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "I'm in a band with three narcissists" he retorts, "I stopped being nervous years ago."

* * *

The hut was too small to have a good old pace around in. Erica considered walking up and down the beach, but she worried the oncoming tide would cut her off. Instead, she walks back and forth past the refrigerator, arms folded crossly. "I didn't say I _didn't_ like children" she insists.

John rolls his eyes. He was as prone to the habit as she was. It was infuriating. He was so stubborn, even on the pettiest points. "You get into a fuss whenever I even _mention_ my kids" he argues.

Erica huffs. Their latest argument was her doing. He'd been chirping away about how excited he was for her to meet his children, provided all went well. She'd panicked. Assumed quite rashly she was headed for the mantel of _step-mother_. Visions of cutting up endless piles of sandwiches and constant rides to school haunted her. It was too much commitment too soon. "I'm just not used to them," she tells him.

"They're _children_. They're not _dogs_."

The woman clings to bear threads. "It just feels like so much responsibility". Frankly, she was terrified of the Deacon children resenting her for ending their parents' marriage. Her lack of experience around people so young didn't help.

John laughs humorlessly. "I suggested you should _meet_ them. I'm not asking you to start a family with me."

"I know you're only twenty-three, but-"

She narrows her eyes warily. "But what?"

John looks her dead in the eye. "But you're being immature" he declares, unflinching.

Erica scoffs loudly. "Oh, spare me" she cries. Incensed, she makes a bid for the front door and storms out across the sand. White-frosted waves lap rhythmically at her ankles, growing in their ferocity the further she bounded. A series of splashes behind her let her know that John's hot on her heels. "You're ruining my dramatic exit."

"Sod your dramatics" John beckons, "How are we supposed to make sense of things if you keep storming off?"

"I'm _immature_ , remember?" Erica calls back. She gasps. The sea crept up quite severely now. It was headed in for the night. They'd both be swept off their feet before long if they weren't careful. "Look, I need a moment, alright? I'm overwhelmed."

John wades through the froth. "If you could have your moment _inside_ , that would really set my nerves at ease."

"I'll be fine-" Erica squeals. Her toes sink into something squishy and cold. Something foul tangles about her ankle. She hops about on the spot, desperate to free herself. "Erica!" John shouts. He flies in from behind and scoops her up into his arms. Frantic, he searches about her for a bite or sting of some description.

Erica kicks a tangled mess of seaweed from her foot.

"I thought a shark or something had got you" John breathes. He cradles her near just in case.

"Do they have sharks in this area?" Erica ponders. She couldn't have cared less for the answer. She'd quite unexpectedly found herself spellbound by his little heroics. He'd practically raced over to help her. And the way he was holding her, like the prince who'd just rescued his beloved princess? She could have sworn she was invulnerable to such displays.

"No idea. Better not risk it."

With strong arms, John carries her to the safety of the cottage. He sets her down gently, barely taking his eyes off her. Would it ever stop? The wanting her? Since being in Bali with her, he'd come to realize just how deeply his attraction ran. If he'd been getting ahead of himself before, he was shooting at the speed of light by now. He was in _love_ with her. Completely, foolishly, head-over-heels in love.

And she was in love with him. It defied past pain. Every beaten-down warning inside her clamored for her to take things slow. One by one, she switched them off.

"Tell me a little more about your kids" she offers, biting back her anxiety, "I'd like to hear about them, really."

John sits her down, already bursting with enthusiasm. "Well, first of all, my youngest is a total rascal. He'll try to chew absolutely everything-"

* * *

The island offers a gentle symphony to the two lovers. Amongst the trees behind, ripening coconuts knock against one another. Tranquil waves hiss and slither over the sandbank. And from a makeshift campsite a safe distance up the beach, a musician plucks at the strings of an acoustic guitar.

John, keen to perfect the melody that had visited him in his dreams, every now and correcting the tab he'd drawn in his notebook. He insisted on it being perfect. Erica had loved all its earlier versions. Good thing too. It was for her. It had even prompted her to tell him that she was falling in love with him. He blushes at the memory. His songwriting had never been complimented so highly.

His focus drifts to her, as it usually did.

Erica lies on her stomach on the sand, face buried into a towel, every inch of her open to the sun. "You've stopped playing" she mumbles.

"I'm admiring the view."

"I'm _sunbathing_."

The beach was private. There was very little chance of being spotted, so what was the harm?

"I'll control myself."

"Good. Consider this an exercise in _restraint_. Lord knows we need it."

Erica lifts her head. She'd quite forgotten how long she'd been frying for. "How am I doing on this side?" she enquires, trying in vain to crane her neck back, "Am I even?"

John stares at her bare ass, silently marveling at how smooth her skin was, how pert her cheeks were. He tries to coach himself against diving his nose between them. "You're roasting perfectly, love," he tells her. He risks a slap at her behind. "You could cook an egg on that."

"There's a compliment in there somewhere" Erica giggles. She flips onto her front, limbs spread so as to let her tan develop as evenly as possible. "Help me with the lotion, would you? I'm feeling lazy."

John flicks the cap off the bottle eagerly. Where to start? Her legs? He squirts a healthy amount of lotion into his palm and begins to rub it along her legs. He takes his time. Massages the stuff into her skin slowly. "That feels nice" Erica hums, eyes drifting shut.

The man moves to her stomach next. He applies a little more, then moves his hands upward. "Don't get cheeky" she cautions, mouth teetering on a smirk. She tenses as he smothers her breasts with the cream. A pleasant sigh escapes her. She reaches up to encourage him. Eases him into tender circles around her nipples.

The temptation is too great, and John finds himself moving lower again. Lower, lower, _lower_. "I don't need any down there" Erica smiles. She wrenches her eyes open just enough to watch his fingers disappear between her legs. An excited shiver ripples through her. There really was no resisting it, was there? She'd always enjoyed sex, but this was carnal.

Thank God she kept up with her birth control.

"Put the guitar down" she instructs.

John does as he's told, and so onto him she rolls. _Fuck the tan_ , she thinks.

* * *

"I think I've caught something!" Erica feels the faintest tug on her fishing line. For an hour she'd sat without even a twitch. Thrilled, she gets to her feet. The tiny boat wobbles beneath her and she slips back onto her ass. She narrowly misses losing the rod she'd hired to the ocean. The fish she'd snagged abandons the bait. Sore and embarrassed, she pouts. "I hope you're having better luck," she says.

John's deep in concentration, barely moving an inch for fear of scaring his dinner away. He wasn't a great fisherman. The hobby wasn't of great interest to either of them, but they'd spotted a sign advertising the opportunity as they walked through town and found themselves intrigued. They were getting on well. Finding out more and more about each other. Hadn't argued much.

What better way to test their bond than to be left alone in the middle of nowhere, no one but each other and the local sea life to keep them company?

"Have you been fishing before?" Erica asks.

"I tried it with my eldest years ago" John replies, smiling fondly, "We didn't catch much, but it was fun."

"I never went with my own dad. It was one of those things we mentioned but never got around to doing."

Erica watches his countenance dampen and sets her rod aside. "It can't have been easy" she consoles, rubbing his back, "Losing him so young."

John gazes sadly into the blue abyss before him. "It wasn't. It was so sudden. It's like I went into shock" he admits, "I can barely remember anything from before he died. His voice, his face. It's shit."

"I'm sorry" Erica soothes, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I feel lucky that I got to know him at all," he says, "You didn't get to even _meet_ your father."

Erica stiffens. "I can't miss something I never had" she reasons. She's glad when he doesn't pry further. It was easy to forget how sore a point it could be. At least he was sympathetic, she supposed. Men she'd known before had somehow turned it into a stick to beat her with. Matt, in particular, had blamed her 'many faults' on her lack of a father. _Strange_. He had one growing up and he'd turned out a complete cunt.

"It's nice, having kids of my own" John adds, steering away tactfully, "They're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Erica feels a strange, fuzzy sensation ball at the pit of her stomach. Part of her persisted in being freaked out at the mere mention of children, her imagination wholly unhelpful in the futures it conjured for her should her and John's relationship last. Yet it was touching. _Sweet_. Talking about the kids cheered him up. They were the one constant light in his life.

She liked hearing him talk about the things he was passionate about, even if she didn't always understand them.

" _Shit_ " John growls abruptly. He tightens his grip on the fishing rod and grapples with the wheel. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Erica peers ahead. Something cut through the water, every now and then a small fin bobbing into view. " _Come here_."

There's a minor struggle, and then there's a bloody great fish flopping about in the boat. Erica grimaces. It's _big_ , somewhat boxy with yellow and green scales. It's strange little eyes dart about, wide lips gasping out what she can only assume is fish speak for " _What the fuck am I doing here_?" 

John carefully removes the hook from its mouth. "I'm not sure I want to eat it now" he confesses. 

"Me neither" Erica agrees, "It's quite beautiful in its own way."

"Let's put him back."

Together they lift the creature to the side of the boat. "Sorry to have disturbed you, mate" Erica apologizes. John tries to tickle its chin before realizing it had teeth.

Bored, and arresting furiously, it wriggles out of their grasp and drops back into the sea.

The couple watches it swim off. "He'll have quite a story to tell his wife" John jokes.

Erica grins. "I can hear the conversation now," she says. She puffs her cheeks up and flaps imaginary fins in the air. "You'll never guess who I met today, love. The mushroom-haired bloke from Queen!"

* * *

Fish off the menu, they'd called into the nearest market to stock up. Some traditional vegetarian fare had provided a delicious dinner. For dessert, they'd attempted _laklak_ , Balinese pancakes. They'd been a minor disaster from the start, both Erica and John remembering the recipe, given to them by a local woman in broken English, completely differently.

The misshapen, brown lumps they'd ended up with hadn't tasted too bad. The champagne they'd acquired helped.

They were a fair few glasses in by now, the bottle in the ice bucket by their bed running low. Any hope of meaningful, deep discussion had been abandoned to ridiculous giggling and sloppy make-out sessions. Erica's inebriated brain was unable to focus on a great deal. John was the focus of all she had left. "You're so beautiful" she sighs dreamily, stroking his cheek.

"And you're _drunk_ " John retorts. Not that he wasn't enjoying her advances. Quite the opposite. He was liking the way things were going.

"So are you" Erica points out. She tugs at his collar and draws him to his lips. Freely she opens her mouth to him, willing him to explore deeper. They part just long enough for her to pull his shirt over his head. Her knee pushed against his crotch, she dives to his neck. John relaxes under her, though his breathing quickens.

The patterns she mapped out with her tongue were utterly divine. He needed more, needed her all over him. The champagne bucket catches his eye. Feeling bold, he picks out an ice cube. Easing the woman back, he traces her lips with his thumb. " _Fuck_ " he speaks lowly, the sight of her sucking the digit into her mouth more intoxicating than the alcohol. He shows her the ice cube and waits for her to nod. She does. He slides it between her teeth.

Erica doesn't wait for instruction. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Leisurely she trails the ice cube over his chest, hesitating at the spots she knew his skin to be especially sensitive. On she travels, painting clear, wet streaks across his navel. Crouching at his feet, she pops the ice cube into her palm. She gestures to his straining briefs and bites her lip. "Would you like to take those off for me, baby?" she invites.

John obliges at the drop of a hat. Clenching at the bedsheets, he watches her place the ice between her teeth again. Gently taking his cock in her fist, she lowers herself over his lap. His breath catches in his throat. Dear _God_. He'd never known such a feeling. Pain and pleasure, combined perfectly. " _Shit_ " he growls, twisting his fingers through her curls harshly, "Keep going."

Erica pushes the melting cube to the back of her throat and takes his tip between her lip. She feels him arch off the bed and she knows the conflicting warmth of his skin and cold of her mouth must be driving him mad. Confidently she pushes deeper, sitting back to lick stripes across his shaft when she worries she'll gag. It felt almost _artful_. Certainly some of her finest work. Going by the way he pulled her hair, he was close.

She withdraws with a pop, eyes watering, saliva dripping down her chin. Somehow, she'd never felt more perfect. She reads him easily. "How do you want me, baby?" she teases, snaking her way up to his lips.

John recalls how enchanted he'd been when he'd watched her sunbathe, the sight of her lying naked on her back, dark skin slick with lotion, etched permanently into his memory. He turns her over and presses her into the mattress. "Like this", he growls into her ear.

Erica's eyes roll back into their sockets. She feels him make light work of her shorts. She gasps, those calloused fingers of his curling into her. He pumps until he has her soaked, then maneuvres into skillfully circling her clit. " _Fuck_ " she sings, stars bursting behind her eyelids. He was far too good at that. How she'd ever be able to watch him play the guitar without her mind diving down dirty avenues, she didn't know.

John alternates in his patterns, quick but never too rough. The sounds she made for him made his heart flutter. He's frightened it'll be him bursting when he feels her buck underneath him. "John, _please_ " Erica begs, "I need you."

He braces himself, then slides in. He lies flat against her back, setting out a steady rhythm with his hips. "Oh, _God_ " he snarls into her shoulder. Hopelessly enamored, _hooked_ , he loses control of his words. "I love you."

Nails curling into her pillow, Erica angles her head so she can kiss him. " _I love you too_."

* * *

They couldn't quite bring themselves to walk away. Suitcases at their feet, they take in the beach hut for the last time. The two weeks they'd had together had flown by. Though they'd missed their friends, they were sorry to be leaving.

"Perhaps we should hide away here for the rest of our lives" John suggests.

Erica exhales wistfully. "I'd like that" she wishes, "I've been so happy these last two weeks."

"Me too."

John takes her hand in his. It had worked, getting away from it all. What they felt was real. They were going to give it a proper go. He couldn't wait for what the oncoming years would bring. That's what they'd have. Years. _Forever_ , if he was lucky. He keeps that to himself. He didn't want to scare her away.

One step at a time, he reminds himself.

"We can come back" he recommends.

"When?" Erica asks hopefully. She'd quite happily make a habit of running away to Bali.

"I’m not sure. But we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :-)


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